Destruction Trilogy: Splint
by Winchester Mythology
Summary: They broke him: took away everything he had. Now Sam Winchester is on the run from those he loves most. Caught in a delusion where everyone - and everything - is a lie, he must fight to pick up the life he lost. Desperate to right the wrongs done to his brother, Dean must conquer his own demons to have even the slightest chance of saving him. But is Sam just too far gone?
1. Prologue

**Hi guys! Welcome back! I hope you've all (vaguely) recovered from the finale…yeah…I'm still reeling from that!**

 **Thank you to those of you who sent me so much love for Fractured (and Broken). I hope you enjoy this last part of the journey too! If you've just stumbled across this story, please bear in mind that it's the third instalment of the Destruction Trilogy and therefore might not make a whole lot of sense (although I will try my best to refer back to the things that need it).**

 **Enjoy!**

oOo

 _"Round and around I go_

 _Addicted to the numb, livin' in the cold."_

 _\- Runnin', Adam Lambert_

oOo

"Do you want to be here?"

He flinched, the voice whispering too close to his ear. His heart pounded agonisingly against his ribs. If it beat much harder, it was going to stop. Sweat dampened his skin, made his shirt stick uncomfortably to him. Every breath was a short, sharp gasp and he couldn't slow it down.

 _Calm down. Calm down calmdown calmdowncalmdowncalmdown…_

"I asked you a question."

He jerked his head away, hating the feel of hot breath on the back of his neck. His hairs rose and he strained forwards, but couldn't go far.

They wanted him exposed. Vulnerable.

He was giving them exactly what they wanted. The band around his eyes kept him blind, kept him guessing. He just wanted to _go_. Why wouldn't they let him go? He hadn't done anything to them. Why did this keep happening?

"I'm not going to be very happy if you make me repeat myself."

"Please. Just let me go," he begged, hands balling into fists, trying to stop the trembling of his fingers. He didn't know why he tried to hide it; they already knew he was weak.

"I can't do that. Not until you admit it."

"I don't want to be here," he whimpered, twisting his hands. The metal bit into them, chewing at the soft flesh that was slowly going numb from being lifted above his head for so long.

"I don't believe you. I think you _want_ this. It reminds you of him." The man goaded, his honeyed voice moving as his heels clicked on the concrete floor.

"No," he shook his head vehemently. It wasn't true. He didn't want this at all. He _wanted_ his freedom. Forgetting everything…finding his way out. If he could do that, he would be free. But he couldn't do it alone. He was weak and he loathed that it was true.

"I think it does. You feel _safe_ like this. You don't want control."

"You're wrong!" he cried, bursting into a fit of struggling, yanking on his arms and rubbing his face against his biceps but the blindfold wouldn't shift. The shackles bit into his wrists, his ankles; there was no give at all. He sagged helplessly, letting his head drop forward.

"You don't know how to be in control anymore," the man whispered next to his ear. "You're weak. You can't escape because you don't want to. You're not a leader.

"This removes your responsibility. You want to be told what to do, where to go, how to live. This makes your pitiful existence _easier,_ " the voice hissed derisively. He wanted to scream and rail against them, but he couldn't find the strength.

"You're wrong," he whispered brokenly, yelping when a blow snapped his head to the side, sending stars exploding in the dark. The chains rattled as his legs buckled.

"I'm not. If I was, you wouldn't be back here, chained to a ceiling. Helpless. Again. You wanted to be caught because then you don't have to answer to anyone – yourself included – about why you gave in. And you did; it was your choice."

"No, it wasn't," he sobbed. He had never had the choice. Choice was a luxury he'd been denied for too long.

"It was. And you're going to think about that and, when I come back, your training will begin. We're going to make it right. It's not going to be hard for me; I found all the original methods. The harder you resist, the harder it will be for you. Remember: I know exactly what works with you."

He cried out as his arms were suddenly jerked up higher, forcing him to stand on his toes.

"No! Don't! You can't leave me here!" he shouted, already feeling the burn in his shoulders, the shallowness of his breath as his chest was stretched up. The footsteps echoed out, followed by a heavy slam, leaving him alone. The darkness closed in, bearing down, getting blacker and more ominous. His panting got louder, more ragged, mixing with the blood roaring in his ears.

He couldn't go through this. Not again. They needed to let him go. He needed to get out.

"But I _am_ here for you; I want to help you through this." The familiar voice, so different to the one who had just tormented him, droned around him, stopping his blood cold.

"No…" he whimpered, struggling to breathe. He couldn't listen; he didn't want this. Why were they doing this?!

"It's my job. It's what I'm going to do. I'll keep you safe. You'll be alright as long as I'm here," it crooned again, tinny and echoing as though it was coming through speakers. It was a lie. It was all a lie. No one could protect him. No one could keep him safe.

Alone in the dark, he screamed.

oOo

He would kill every last one of them.

Wide, livid eyes were fixated on the screen, watching his brother hang from the ceiling, his screams ringing through the speakers. Making him watch was the biggest mistake they'd ever made.

He'd make sure of it.

oOo

 **You know me…I like to give you something a little short and vague to start with ;)**

 **Please review!**


	2. Runnin'

**Thanks for the positive vibes guys! Glad I've piqued your interest; let's hope I can keep it!**

oOo

 _"Now I can't seem to breathe right."_

 _\- Runnin', Adam Lambert_

oOo

 **Lebanon, Kansas**

 _"What did the ritual need you to do?"_

 _"I had to kill Lucifer."_

 _"Who were you aiming the gun at?"_

 _"Lucifer."_

 _"Why is Lucifer disguised as Dean?"_

 _"Because he likes to watch when he plays games."_

He flicked rewind. Pressed play.

 _" – the ritual need you to do?"_

 _"I had to kill Lucifer."_

 _"Who were you aiming the gun at?"_

 _"Lucifer."_

 _"Why is Lucifer disguised as Dean?"_

 _"Because he likes to watch when he plays games."_

He pressed it again. Played it.

 _"Why is Lucifer disguised as Dean?"_

 _"Because he likes to watch when he plays games."_

"Dean, stop, honey. You're killin' yourself," Jody's hand was warm on his shoulder as she leaned forward and plucked the black dictaphone from his hand. She was surprised when it simply slid out of his grasp. His other hand reached up, wrapping his fingers around hers on his shoulder. She simply stood there, letting him hold on. Right then, she knew she was all he was clinging onto.

The events of a few hours ago played heavily on her mind; the shock, the uncertainty…the fear. Fear she'd never thought she feel, caused by one of her boys. When Sam's hand had wrapped around her neck and squeezed…

Jody shoved it down. Locked it away. She'd deal with it later. Right now, she needed to focus on Dean. She'd woken first at the bottom of the stairwell with his body wrapped protectively around her, trying to shield her from the fall. Of course, as soon as he'd come around, he'd wanted to go straight after Sam, but – somehow – Jody had convinced him to stay, pointing out that he was in no condition to pursue his brother. The fall had snapped two of his fingers and dislocated his right shoulder, adding to the knife wound in his thigh. She'd popped his shoulder back in and set his fingers, but they needed Cas.

She wished the angel would hurry up.

The small black device had been waiting on the table for them. The air had been sucked from the bunker the moment Dean pressed play.

The moment they'd realised what Thomas had done.

"How could he believe it, Jody?" Dean whispered, his voice small and broken. Her heart ached as her hand tightened. "How can he think that I'm Lucifer?"

"I don't know," she murmured. She wanted to lie, to say that it couldn't have been Sam, that those weren't his words. Dean didn't need lies: they wouldn't ease his pain. "Did you listen to the rest of the tape? Did he say?"

He gave a small shake of his head. "I couldn't do it. I don't know if I'm strong enough to hear it."

"It's okay; you don't need to hear it all at once. You need to give yourself time," she soothed, pulling up a chair, moving her hand but keeping a hold of his as she sat down beside him, leaning forwards. "Dean, look at me," she prompted softly, waiting for the broken emeralds to fix on her. He dragged them up to meet her but she could see it took all he had. "I don't know what kinda shit they did to Sam, but _he is still Sam_. That means we can do somethin'. This ain't permanent – we won't let it be. He's hurtin' as much as you are and he's scared."

"Yeah. Of me," Dean said bitterly.

"No, Dean – of _Lucifer_. You're not him," Jody countered fiercely.

"Same difference to Sam," he replied quietly, dropping his gaze.

"So that's what we fix. We get him to see that he didn't say yes to that bastard and that we're real. It's gonna take time, but we can do it. We've been through worse," Jody answered, her tone strong and resolute. Dean felt his heart ache. He wanted to believe her.

"I don't know if we have. Hell, I don't even know how I'm gonna get close to him without scaring the crap outta him," Dean's half-smile was dead and fell quickly from his lips. He felt…lost. It never mattered beforewhat they went up against, they always had each other's back. Even when one of them made really stupid decisions and fought, they knew, deep down, that the other one would be there to pick up the pieces and put them back together.

Now?

Dean doubted it for the first time in his life. Thomas had taken his bond with his brother and ripped it open, replacing the familiarity, the comfort, with Sam's worst fear. How had Sam felt when he'd opened his eyes and seen his brother lying by his bed? Agony stretched like a disease, infecting every fibre of his being. He'd caused his brother pain and hadn't even known. He should have known.

 _That's supposed to be my job._

The heavy clang of the door broke him from his self-flagellation; both of them bolting upright, Dean's hand squeezing Jody's almost painfully tight. Footsteps hurried in and Castiel leaned over the railings, his hands grasping the black metal as he gazed down. Dean slumped back in the chair, wincing when it jolted his shoulder and thigh.

"Dean, what happened?" Cas called, hurrying down the stairs. "I got here as soon as I could, but the battery in my phone went dead. Are you alright? How is Sam?"

The angel looked from Dean to Jody, frowning when he should've seen elation and felt despair.

"Sam's gone, Cas," Dean murmured, flinching as he adjusted himself in the chair. Cas stepped forward instantly and placed his hand on Dean's forehead. Light glowed and Dean gasped as he felt the bones in his fingers knit back together, the knife wound in his thigh tingling and the ache in his shoulder warming and then disappearing. It was still a feeling that he was never prepared for, could never get used to. It should be painful, but it wasn't; it was a warmth and a sense of calm that relaxed every twinge in his body. The moment Cas let go, Dean felt revitalised – physically, at least. Cas couldn't mend the crushing feeling around his heart.

"What do you mean he's gone?" Cas asked incredulously. Dean took the dictaphone from Jody's hand gently and rewound it again. Ketch's voice was tinny through the small speaker.

 _"Do you know where we are now, Sam?"_

 _"Yeah, sort of."_ Sam sounded exhausted, like answering was too much effort.

 _"Can you tell me what you mean by 'sort of'?"_

 _"We're in the bunker, but it's not the real bunker."_

 _"Why don't you think this is the 'real bunker'?"_ Ketch's tone remained unaffected, like he was reading from a transcript.

 _"Because none of this is. I'm the only thing that is and even then that's not strictly true."_

 _"Why don't you think anything is real?"_

 _"Thomas told me the truth."_

 _"What truth is that?"_

 _"That I said yes to Lucifer."_ Silence fell for a moment after Sam said it. Cas looked uneasily at Jody over Dean's head. She gave him a sad smile.

 _"Alright, Sam. Can you tell me what you were doing in Chicago?"_

 _"We were doing a ritual to expel Lucifer. If it worked, Thomas said that it would get Lucifer out of my head and I'd be able to wake up and take control again."_

 _"And that ritual required you to kill your brother – to kill Dean?"_

 _"No, I keep telling you that,"_ Sam's voice rose as he grew agitated, the tone unconsciously making Dean shift in his chair as they listened.

 _"I'm sorry, Sam, I didn't mean to upset you,"_ Ketch's voice was soothing, his tone pleasant _. "What did the ritual need you to do?"_

 _"I had to kill Lucifer."_

 _"Who were you aiming the gun at?"_

 _"Lucifer."_

 _"Why is Lucifer disguised as Dean?"_ Cas' mouth fell open, his eyes wide, disbelief flooding through them. He was about to interject when Sam's voice came through again.

 _"Because he likes to watch when he plays games._ _Thomas said that Lucifer did as I asked him to when I made a deal with him back in the barn in England; if he would create a world for me in my head where I didn't know what he was doing, I would say yes. Lucifer being Lucifer though wouldn't have been able to keep out so he took on Dean's vessel. That's why I had to stay in the cellar; that's why I got the brand: so that he couldn't find me."_

Dean stopped the recording, a heavy silence descending again.

"Why would Sam tell Ketch that? It doesn't make sense," Cas asked, desperate for some sort of validation for his denial.

"Ketch used his damned truth mojo on him," Dean replied, biting out Ketch's name. "I was asleep when he did it."

"Where is he now?" Cas growled.

"Gone. I kicked him out. I didn't hear any of it 'til after Sam was gone too. I should've listened to it before – I would've known what Sam thought. I could've stopped him."

Jody shook his hand, which she was still holding, fixing him with a fierce look.

"Could've and should've won't help, Dean. You're only gonna beat yourself up and that's not good for you or Sam. We'll do the best we can, same as we always do," she berated him softly, hating to see him chewing himself up. He stood up suddenly, pulling away.

"I'll be right back," he said gruffly as he stalked off towards the kitchen. Both of them knew where he was going and what he was after. The angel sat down in one of the other empty seats.

"What happened Jody?" he pressed.

"I came back to find the boys facin' off against each other. Sam was running up towards me…the look in his eyes, Cas…" Jody swallowed hard, "I've never seen him look like that. He was terrified – like he was fightin' for his very existence and knew he was gonna lose. I tried to block him, but he grabbed me and used me to distract Dean," she finished quietly.

"No, he didn't, Jody," they looked up when Dean reappeared, a tumbler in his hand. Dean looked at Cas. "He grabbed her by the throat and used her as a shield before chuckin' her down the stairs."

"He was runnin' scared, Dean; I don't blame him," she countered quietly. She watched his jaw clench and unclench, the guilt clear in his eyes. He may not have been the one to push her, but he definitely thought it was his fault. And nothing she could say would change that. Instead, she steered them away from the guilt-trap that they were quickly falling into. "So what do we do now?"

"We find him," Dean's resolution was clear.

"What are we going to do when we find him? If he thinks you're Lucifer –" Cas started, but Dean held up a hand.

"I know, it's bad. But I can't leave him out there alone. We'll figure out what we're gonna do when we find him," he replied before turning on Jody, his look apologetic. She knew that look and nodded.

"What do you need me to do?"

"I need to know what Thomas was doin' – what he was _really_ doin'. That wasn't a fake ritual he was gonna do. I wanna know what it was. I know it's hours away…"

"If it helps, I'll do it, you know that," she smiled, patting his arm and getting up. She pulled him down and into a tight hug, rubbing his back softly. "He'll be okay," she whispered as his arms looped around her. She felt the smallest nod against her ear before she let him go. She squeezed Cas' arm as she walked past him, heading for the garage. Dean turned to Cas, steel in his gaze.

"Let's go find Sam."

oOo

 **Edge of Platte River, outskirts of Yutan, Nebraska**

Fear kept Sam's foot plastered to the floor of the 1970 Dodge Challenger he'd hotwired in Lebanon. He'd run hard and fast from the bunker, racing down the dirt track, moving off road as quickly as he could, terrified that he was being followed. With his left arm trapped against his torso, held tightly in the sling, every footstep jarred the gunshot in his shoulder. Mostly he could ignore it, but on the frequent occasions where he slipped and nearly fell, it sent white-hot pain lancing through his nerves.

Crisscrossing through the undergrowth, Sam had emerged on the outskirts of Lebanon, darting quickly down the side streets, trying to find an easy target for a car. The modern ones were difficult to jack at the best of times and Sam was nowhere near fully functioning. Getting into the Dodge had taken longer than it should have and, during the whole time he was trying to break into it, the little voice in the back of his mind berated him.

 _You're going to get caught. He'll be here any second._

Finally, his fumbling fingers had listened and he'd got in and had it started, squealing down the road, firing dust up behind him as he sped out of town.

That had been a few hours ago and the adrenaline had seeped away, draining him slowly until he could feel a heavy exhaustion settling through every fibre. He was hyperaware of his heart, hating the way it would slow, almost maintaining a regular rhythm before it would trip, flying into a frenzy that sucked his breath away. He squinted hard every time another vehicle drove towards him and he fought the urge to veer off the side of the road every time. His foot would momentarily lift off the gas, his concentration lost.

And then he would picture _his_ face.

The wide-eyed confusion, the disbelief and, worst of all, the hurt: all played to perfection. How Lucifer managed to play his brother, getting every mannerism, every cue, just right was the most frightening part: Sam could feel the false sense of comfort washing through him. Yet…it wasn't really false.

 _Lucifer has programmed your mind to accept him as Dean. You have to fight it._

Thomas' wisdom scuttled to the forefront of his mind. Even his own physiological reactions weren't safe, weren't real. He couldn't trust himself. So he had to run. And he would keep running until he found a way out of this mess.

Eventually, he could see the turning he was waiting for coming up. Slowing the car, Sam pulled off, heading down a deserted dirt track, trees rising up on either side, their skeletal fingers leering over him in the dark, flashing in the headlights.

Silence invaded the car when he eased it to a stop in front of an old wooden cabin nestled a few hundred meters down the dirt track, far away from the road. It was an old hunters' cabin – one of many dotted around the country – not ideal but, for now, Sam had no other option. He couldn't stay out in the open; he had no money, no phone and no one to turn to.

The isolation bore down on him heavily, threatening to crush him into his seat as he struggled to push it back and scrambled out of the car. Jogging quickly, he made it to the cabin door, reaching up and running his fingers along the top of the doorframe for the key. Moss and debris brushed against his fingertips before he felt the cold metal fall into his grasp. Fumbling awkwardly, he got the door open and slipped inside, slamming it and bolting it fast before leaning against it with his eyes closed and his chest heaving.

Sam stayed there, almost afraid to move again, feeling like every step could be tracked. Traced. He wasn't safe – nowhere was safe – but he had to rest. In the semi-dark, guided only by the moonlight, he searched the living area of the cabin, finding a shotgun nestled beneath the sofa within arm's reach. Checking its chambers, he found it loaded, but grabbed a box of ammunition from a kitchen drawer before hurrying into the bedroom at the back. It was plain with few furnishings; it was a stopover not a permanent residence, but the bed was covered in blankets and the curtains were drawn.

Shutting the door quietly, Sam shuffled over to the small rickety bed. Ignoring the blankets, he seated himself in the corner, propped up against the wall, balancing the shotgun awkwardly on his drawn-up knees, pointing it towards the door. It wasn't ideal – trying to shoot a shotgun one handed was near enough impossible – but it was all he had and he'd take what little defence he could. He winced as he shifted his injured arm, but soon settled, keeping his eyes trained on the door. He would stay awake as long as possible; it wouldn't take long for Lucifer to catch up.

But his body had other ideas. Overcome with fatigue, the exhaustion swept through him, making his eyelids heavy and his grip loose. Finally, after hours of fear and uncertainty, Sam fell asleep, alone and isolated in the middle of nowhere.

oOo

 **Please review!**


	3. Can't Seem to Breathe Right

**Thanks for the reviews/follows/favourites, everyone! You make my day! And apologies for the late update: I was away with the family and had next to no internet access except when the wind blew in the right direction and I balanced on one leg!**

 **Just a quick reminder: Ketch is not the same as Show!Ketch: when I wrote him into Broken we hadn't seen him yet, so I had to create him. I have stayed true to my version of him throughout this trilogy (much to my annoyance as I would LOVE to write Show!Ketch…)**

oOo

 _"How did the night get like this?"_

 _\- Runnin', Adam Lambert_

oOo

 **West Homer Street, Chicago**

Midmorning sunlight eased its way in through the windows, shining past the grime that was caked onto the panes. It splashed squares of pale yellow on the dusty concrete, minute particles drifting carefully in the shafts pouring in. As the hours passed, Ketch had watched the sunlight move, its reach finally extending over the circular red stain on the floor. Spatters were evident within the circle, missing the unusual symbols drawn between the lines of the circle. The chair lay broken to one side next to the congealed pool of blood that spread in a haphazard splat: it was all that remained of Thomas. Burning his and Anna's bodies had been Ketch's first point of call when getting back to Chicago. Making sure that their remains were concealed was his highest priority, as stipulated by Jonathan Markham, head of the British Men of Letters. Ketch had dealt with them swiftly and efficiently; while he was far superior to a hunter, he was never one to shirk getting his hands dirty.

There was a certain amount of…satisfaction associated with the flames licking at their wrapped corpses. They had damaged the reputation of the Men of Letters and, to Ketch, that was inexcusable. Their loyalty should have been to the Chapter first and foremost. Idly, he wondered when they'd forgotten that.

Returning to the abandoned warehouse afterwards, the Englishman had set about gathering evidence of their activity, attempting to work out what the ritual was. Theoretically, it was no longer significant (seeing as Thomas was dead), but Jonathan would want a full report and, besides, Ketch found his interest piqued. While he wasn't particularly empathetic, he did enjoy psychological studies and his extensive…skill set required him to have a detailed understanding of his prey. Thomas may not fit into that category anymore, but Dean would still require the information to help his brother.

Ketch was unfazed by the hunter's reaction to his use of the truth serum – he'd expected it and knew how volatile Dean's temper was. Yet, he also knew that Dean needed to hear the information that he'd discovered. At some point, Sam would run and his older brother would need to listen. And if Sam happened to kill Dean in his efforts to escape?

Well, Ketch _had_ warned him.

Taking a final photograph of the symbol on the floor, Ketch stood up, running a hand over the faint stubble that was beginning to pepper his chin. His cold grey eyes scanned over the screen quickly as he composed an email with nimble fingers, adding in another picture of the incantation scribbled onto the paper Thomas had had on him, before sending it straight to the Chapter's Ritualistic Team. It wouldn't take them long to determine the source and function of the ritual, thus giving him another piece of the puzzle.

The clatter and whine of a door reached his ears and immediately he was alert. Grabbing his pistol from the table next to his briefcase, Ketch edged forwards, moving with practiced silence towards the door. Light footsteps trailed up, heading his way; their owner making a conscious effort to be as quiet as possible.

Ketch flexed his finger on the trigger, raising his gun.

A short figure, with choppy black hair, turning grey, rounded the corner, her gun also raised and steel in her eyes. Ketch lowered his weapon immediately, giving her a curt nod.

"Jody. A pleasure," he greeted. She glared up at him, keeping her gun raised for a fraction of a section longer, clearly in Dean's camp over the whole truth serum debacle.

"Not sure I can say the same," Jody grumbled, putting her gun into the back of her jeans whilst she kept her eyes fixed on the Englishman. His cold silver eyes were as unsettling as ever: devoid of any emotion, yet she could almost see him studying her every reaction. Despite the help he'd given them, he was not the kind of guy she would ever describe as comforting. In fact, he was the opposite. The sheriff never knew exactly where she stood with him and his betrayal of Dean's trust proved she was wise not to get complacent around him.

"Now, Jody, I simply did what needed to be done," he shrugged, raking a hair back through his grey hair. "Since you're here, I can only assume that Dean listened to the recording, yes?"

Jody's teeth clenched inadvertently and she looked away, walking past the Englishman to look at the symbol on the floor.

At the blood stains.

She swallowed back the bile that rose in her throat.

"I'll take that as a yes. Can I also presume that Sam is gone?" he asked, his tone neither accusatory nor patronising. Sometimes she wondered whether he felt anything at all. What made a person like that?

"Yeah, he ran," she replied quietly. "I only heard the first part."

"So you understand Sam's delusion, created by Thomas, about Lucifer possessing Dean's vessel?"

"I heard it. I don't understand it," she answered truthfully, staring out the window. This was where it was all meant to end.

"Was anyone hurt when he escaped?" Ketch continued to prompt as he moved over towards the desk, pulling out a variety of items from his jacket pockets.

"He didn't 'escape' – he isn't a prisoner," Jody snapped, knowing she was being antagonistic but she couldn't help it. "We're fine," she added when he raised an eyebrow. Ketch wasn't family and to admit that one of her boys threatened both her and Dean was too much. She'd already had to pull over half a dozen times on the drive to Chicago in her attempt to deal with it. Having a heart to heart with Ketch was not on her bucket list. She watched as he sorted through some loose papers and held up two sets of keys, examining them closely in his large hands.

"I've sent what I can from this scene back to England. From what I can make of it, there is nothing here to suggest that they were staying here," Ketch murmured, turning a car key fob over in his fingers. "Therefore they had to have had a set up somewhere nearby. If we can find it, we might get more answers."

Jody thought for a moment, staring at the fob in his hands.

"They were drivin' a black BMW…X5, I think? It's probably got GPS in it –"

"Which they would have used to get to their destination," Ketch smiled triumphantly. "Good thinking, Jody. Let's go and find their vehicle."

oOo

 **Edge of Platte River, outskirts of Yutan, Nebraska**

 _"Go on, Sam. It's time!" Thomas' urgency swept through his mind, sinking in deep and wrapping around his senses. He had to do it. It was the only way he was going to be free. He knew that. Sam gripped the knife tightly, bringing it up to Lucifer's throat. His other hand laced through his tormentor's hair, pulling his head back, exposing his throat. Pleading green eyes filled his vision._

 _"Sammy, please," the whimper vibrated along the knife edge, the broken words making him pause, making him doubt. He looked so much like Dean in that split second. The second dragged on, becoming minutes, hours: the two of them suspended in an infinite loop where Sam couldn't move. He couldn't let go of the knife any more than he could drag it across Dean's throat. Dean did nothing; he simply sat in the chair, unbound, but gripping the armrests as he waited for his brother to kill him._

 _Laughter, strong and abhorrent, rippled around Sam._

 _He blinked and the face staring up at him was different. Blue replaced green and the fear lurking within them was infectious._

 _"Don't," Thomas begged, his voice a cracked whisper. "I helped you, Sam. Don't do this." Sam's grip on the knife loosened, but another hand snaked around from behind him and gripped his, tightening his hold on the knife. Solid arms wrapped around him, locking him in their embrace. Cool breath shivered over his neck, ruffling his hair._

 _"I have to do everything for you, don't I, bunk buddy?" Lucifer sighed, but Sam heard the smile in his voice. He struggled to unclasp his hand but Lucifer's calloused grip was iron tight. Thomas stared up at him in a panic: his blue eyes wide. Sam knew he was mirroring the look. He didn't want this; it wasn't his fault!_

 _"Of course it's your fault," Lucifer crooned in Dean's voice, as he began moving their hands. "Remember, all of this, every little thing that happens, is because of you."_

oOo

A deafening bang woke Sam with a cry on his lips and a jolt through his already frayed nerves that sent him scrambling backwards, ripping a flash of agony from his shoulder as he jostled it. His frantic gaze swept around the room, the smoke from the end of the shotgun finally registering along with the hole in the bedroom door.

Shit.

He'd fired the gun in his sleep. He let it slip from his fingers onto the bed, breathing out a sigh of relief as his head fell back against the wooden wall behind him, letting his heart slow. Maybe falling asleep holding a gun wasn't his best idea. There was a time, what felt like years ago, where such a thing would never have happened. The shame that suddenly assaulted him was overwhelming and burned hot at the back of his eyes.

 _You were never this weak._

The tiny voice of the hunter in him was distant and cold, berating him. Weak was what Lucifer had made him. Thomas had tried to help him, but, in the end, even he had failed to make Sam strong again.

"Where am I supposed to go?" he whispered hoarsely to himself. He had nowhere. He had no one. Even when he thought back to all the times when he'd been without Dean – when Dean had died permanently in Broward County; after he'd died because of his deal; Purgatory; his demon road trip – at least he'd had someone there. Bobby, Amelia, hell, even Crowley. The King of Hell may have survived on the outside world, but Sam doubted he would have any desire to try and break into his mind like he'd done with Gadreel. He didn't rank Sam enough to put himself in Lucifer's path. Besides, it wasn't like Sam had any way of actually contacting him.

He laughed mirthlessly. This was what he'd come to: longing for help from _Crowley_. Opening his eyes, Sam's gaze slid miserably over to the window. Beyond the trees, a slick rain had begun at some point during the night, drenching the world in a dismal slate grey that dampened the green of the trees, leaving them in a shade so dark they were almost black.

The question still remained despite his mind wandering. Technically nowhere was safe, but Thomas had managed to keep him off Lucifer's radar for a little over a month. The brand prickled as a reminder on the back of his right shoulder. It hadn't hurt for a while; the scabs had gone, replaced by a thin layer of new skin that felt rough beneath his probing fingers. The pain lingered in his memory but at least it protected him. Lucifer couldn't track him as long as it remained. Sam would simply need to stay ahead of him. Keep one step ahead.

Except, it wasn't that simple. A year ago: no problem. A year ago he'd been a hunter at the peak of his game.

 _Stop it. Telling yourself you can't do it won't make you do it. What would Dean do?_

Sam breathed out slowly, centring himself. That was what he needed to focus on. Dean would look at the practicalities first. He had a car: he could move freely. It wasn't traceable to him. But he had no proper clothes, no money, no phone, no food.

What was in the cabin?

Wincing, Sam slid forwards off the bed before shoving the pain down. He headed over to an old rickety chest of drawers, rooting through it one handed and finding a bunch of shirts and a few pairs of worn jeans. He dumped them on the bed, hoping they'd fit, before he turned back to the door. Cautiously, he peeked through, listening, before passing through and heading to the cupboards in the kitchenette. The first two were bare except for dirt but the third yielded a few cans of soup. A tiny smile tugged at his lips as he rooted around for a can opener. He wasn't totally useless. Maybe he could do this. He just needed to use his brother.

oOo

 **Lakewood Balmoral, Chicago**

The house was pristine – just like the farmhouse had been. And, just like the farmhouse, it was void of personality and the small touches that could have made it a home. It was a stopover: a base of operations and nothing more.

Jody and Ketch had found nothing of note in the car. All that had been left was a CD playing Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata at a low volume when Ketch had turned on the ignition. The Englishman had shut it off instantly and lead the way with Jody following behind him in her truck.

The house was situated on a quiet road full of extravagant houses, sectioned off from its neighbours by high red brick walls and an imposing electric gate. It was set back from the road, obscured from view. Getting in hadn't been difficult for Ketch who had handled the electronic coding system with practiced fingers. Entering the house had been easy since Ketch had taken the key from Thomas' corpse.

The Englishman wasted no time looking for the mundane: it was only items that could benefit their investigation that interested him. Both Thomas and Anna's suitcases were packed with nothing but their essentials – he would take them and burn it all later – Markham would want no trace left of their activities. Thomas would have used an alias or a third party to hire both the car and the house so that would be no problem. They would simply cease to exist. It wasn't his first time making someone disappear and it wouldn't be the last.

"Ketch?" he heard Jody call from downstairs. Making his way down the spiralling staircase, his polished shoes clicked across the hardwood floor as he entered the dining room. Jody was sat at the head of a long mahogany dining table, which would seat ten easily, a sleek black laptop opened in front of her. She looked up as he entered.

"Thomas' laptop. Excellent find, Jody," he praised leaning over her shoulder. She nodded but her frown maintained its annoyance.

"I'm not a hacker: I can't get past the password. I tried all the usual, generic ones but they didn't work," she explained, shrugging. He disappeared out briefly before coming back, briefcase in hand.

"Here, let me try," he offered, setting the hard, black case down on the table and pulled up a chair next to Jody. She slid the laptop over to him, letting her gaze wander as he set up a small grey device covered in intricate symbols which he plugged into the laptop's USB port.

"Do you think Sam sat here – with them?" Jody asked quietly. Ketch's glance flickered up to her briefly, noting the sad downturn of her lips and the worry glazing her eyes.

"It's more than likely," he responded, turning his attention back to the laptop. "I know it's not what you want to think, but the evidence we have suggests that he was fully under Thomas' control by this point. I imagine they were beginning to expose Sam to routines that they hoped would become his normality. Simple things like dinner together would be a part of that."

The thought made the sheriff nauseous. She didn't want to think of her Sam, broken and subdued, manipulated like a puppet into playing happy families with a pair of deranged psychopaths. The chair scraped across the floorboards as she stood up.

"I'll go check the rest of the house," she mumbled, lurching from the room and heading to the kitchen. The walls pushed in on her as she staggered through. Fumbling through the cupboards, she looked for a glass. Opening one cupboard, her hand paused, clinging to the handle as its contents caught her eye. Stacked neatly in the left-hand side were ten litre bottles of water. There was nothing strange in that: lots of people preferred bottle water to the tap. What caught her attention was the label sitting in front of them.

 _Sam's._

Reaching in, Jody picked up one of the bottles, noting the way it squeezed in and crackled in her grasp. Trying the lid confirmed her suspicions: it was already open. She tried a couple more and found them to be the same. Why would he have his own water? Tentatively she raised a bottle to her lips and sipped. Her face screwed up in distaste as a vulgar acidic tone laced over her tongue. Turning, she spat the offending liquid into the sink and scrubbed her mouth with the back of her hand. As she raised the bottle up and let the light from the window pour through, a thin layer of particles rested at the bottom, barely noticeable. What were they giving him?

She picked out another three of the bottles and put them on the side. They could test it later; if it was chemical her lab could detect it. If it was mystical, they could use the resources at the bunker. Either way, she doubted it was for Sam's own good.

Searching the cupboards again, she found a glass and ran it under the tap before taking a long drink, letting the cool liquid spread through her torso, smothering the bile that threatened to rise. The whole house was oppressive, draining at her spirit constantly. For once, she was glad Dean wasn't with her; she didn't want him to see this. The farmhouse had been bad enough; to see Sam integrated with those monsters…it would've pushed him off the edge of the cliff he was already teetering on. She wished none of this had happened, but knew that wishing it didn't make it end. Their reality was always the most brutal.

Rinsing the glass, Jody put it on the draining board and headed out and up the stairs, leaving Ketch to work on the laptop. She hated the stillness of the house. It was deathly quiet. A tomb. Maybe that was fitting, she realised grimly. Thomas' plans for Sam had ended; if only his hold had died just as quickly.

The sheriff wandered along, peeking in a bathroom and an empty bedroom before twisting the handle of a second one. Sam's soft scent greeted her – it was faint, but he'd been there. This had been his room. Stepping inside, Jody looked around curiously. It was sparsely furnished with just the essentials: a wardrobe, chest of drawers and a cast iron bed painted white. Heavy navy curtains lined either side of the window, held back by matching tiebacks, letting a pool of square light fall across the bed and up the wall. Jody edged in, brushing her fingers along the edge of the chest of drawers before opening it. Inside, it was full of plain white shirts and trousers: just like the ones they'd found Sam dressed in. The bile rose again, but this time it was met with a bubble of anger. It was just another way they'd controlled him: take away his ability to choose his clothing and therefore take away his identity. The boys might not have cared much for shopping – their clothing was purely practical – but it was what made them…them.

Shutting the drawers, Jody moved to the wardrobe, her curiosity piqued as her anger rose. It creaked slightly as she opened the left door and baulked. It was lined with three matching suits. Grey, waist-coated with crisp white shirts. Just like the one she's seen Thomas in.

"Fuckin' psycho," she snarled, slamming the door shut and turning away. Her eyes fell on the neatly made bed with its pristine sheets.

And on the single chain attached to a cuff which was threaded under the bed.

That was the last straw. With an enraged howl, Jody grabbed the nearest thing – a bedside lamp – and flung it across the room. It smashed on impact, swiftly followed by whatever else she could lay her hands on. Blindly, she vented the anger, the frustration and the helpless that had been building for weeks.

She was deaf to the thud of footsteps that ran up the stairs and the alarmed calling of her name. For the first time in a long, long time, all Jody could see was red as she flung item after item, tearing the room apart.

"Jody! Stop!" she felt strong arms close around her from behind and she fought them, slapping and punching, twisting around in their grip. She hit him over and over again, and he let her, until, finally, she grasped handfuls of Ketch's suit and cried as the stoic Man of Letters stood still and embraced her, letting her sob brokenly into his chest.

oOo

 **Norfolk, Nebraska**

The sun had long since set, leaving the world in a deep twilight that wrapped around the streetlights. Sam sat in the Dodge Challenger, catching his breath. Leaning back against the headrest, he refused to shut his eyes, not wanting to give anything the chance to sneak up on him. He'd already checked the backseat and the trunk three times, feeling like a kid each time he did, but knowing he couldn't help it. He looked through the haul he'd managed to grab from cars. While stealing had always been a hunter's skill that was a necessity – like now – it wasn't one Sam enjoyed. Credit cards fraud was different: it was faceless. Stealing from cars meant there were real people who would suffer for it. He'd tried to snatch from cars that were clearly owned by those better off, but that didn't ease the guilt.

He'd wanted to hustle pool in a bar, like he'd done when he was younger with Dean. His game was still good and he was certain he would have won a lot more than he'd stolen.

But he couldn't do it.

Oh, he'd found a bar. That had been no trouble. It was exactly the right type: a bit run down, smoky and full of half-drunk patrons who were settling in for the night. It was perfect hustling ground. Yet, when Sam had pulled up outside and tried to get out of the Dodge, he couldn't do it. It was like he was welded to the seat. Panic had swept through him, blinding him, making his palms slick with sweat and his heart pound.

None of the people in the bar would be real. Therefore, all of them could be linked directly to Lucifer. He'd faced the clerk in the Gas'n'Sip having found a small amount of cash in the cabin, but that had taken him nearly twenty minutes to work up the resolve to dive in and out in less than thirty seconds before flooring the Dodge and tearing off the forecourt. Hustling would take hours and he couldn't be exposed like that.

Once he'd told himself he wasn't going to do it, it had taken him what felt like an age to calm down and rethink his strategy. In the end, he'd settled for driving around Norfolk after dark, stopping in several parking lots and darting between the cars, out of sight constantly, looking for any ease grabs. It was amazing really how much people left in their cars. He was constantly cautious, constantly vigilant. If a parking lot was too well lit or had too many people milling around, he moved on. That was what he would have to do from now on until he had a better plan.

The more he moved, the less likely it was that Lucifer would find him.

Sam wasn't a fool; he knew eventually the Devil would catch up with him, but he'd hoped, by then, that he'd be ready.

Whatever the hell that meant.

oOo

 **Lakewood Balmoral, Chicago**

Jody sat with her hands wrapped around a mug as it rested in her lap. Steam billowed slowly in small curls from the tea as she watched it. Ketch, after letting her have her outburst, had made her the brew and she'd laughed humourlessly. _Tea soothes every heartache_ , he'd insisted. It was such a British thing to say, but taking a few scalding sips had proved him right and she was quietly grateful. Yet, she didn't want to be. The thought of him pulling the truth from Sam by force was still fresh in her mind and, while she accepted his help, she wasn't warming back up to him again. She could hold a grudge as well as any Winchester.

Now she watched him carefully as he scanned through the files on Thomas' laptop. He'd got past the security before he'd come up to see her and was now having a quick scour through the hard drive. They'd look properly later, but he'd wanted a cursory look. The mouse hovered over a folder and, when Ketch clicked on it, it revealed a whole host of individual files, all date stamped. Ketch selected the first one and Jody felt the blood drain out of her face as she watched.

"Oh my god."

oOo

 **I'm mean, I know! Please review =D**


	4. Better Run, Gotta Run

**Sorry for the wait, guys – it's been a hectic few weeks and I had an annoying spell of writer's block that I had to write myself out of! But thank you so much for all the wonderful feedback you've given me so far!**

oOo

 _"Nowhere to hide because someone's always gonna find you."_

 _\- For the River, Nickelback_

oOo

 **Lakewood Balmoral, Chicago**

Jody's eyes were glued to the laptop, wishing she could look away, but unable to. The footage that began when Ketch selected the file was high definition: it was crystal clear unlike most cheap CCTV units. This was clearly high end. In the top right-hand corner, the date and time stamp placed the footage on the day after Sam had been taken from the Commandeer Inn. Jody recognised the storm cellar from the farmhouse. The camera was positioned up high, to the left of the entrance, pointed down at a high angle. It showed the whole room, including the shelf lined with a variety of items that made Jody's stomach turn and left her mouth dry, and a metal cabinet. But its main focus was the metal cot that was bolted to the floor against the opposite wall.

And Jody's focus was on the figures approaching the bed from beneath the camera.

Thomas walked in, his footfalls echoing around the empty cellar and feeding up through the speakers. The sheriff ignored him – she didn't care for the Englishman at all – her focus was directed straight onto the broad young man he was carrying. Sam was wriggling, his arms jerking, biceps bulging as he fought the restraints that snared his wrists and attached them via a length of rope to his torso. Thomas stopped by the bed, kneeling down and dropping his shoulder so that Sam was tilted off it and onto the bed.

Jody's fists clenched around the mug in her hands, the heat scalding her but she didn't even notice. Watching, after the fact, was perhaps even worse…she couldn't do anything. There was no running down there and helping. There was no saving Sam. It had already happened. He had already suffered through it.

Thomas moved, sitting on the edge of the bed, revealing Sam's face to the camera. A lump rose in her throat. He was blindfolded and gagged, totally unaware of where he was. Completely unable to fight back.

 _"There: you're safe, Sam."_ Thomas' tone was sickeningly assuring as he grabbed Sam's legs and forced him up onto the bed. Jody bit back a snarl when she saw Thomas brush a hand across Sam's forehead, pushing aside the errant locks of hair to one side. A quiet muffled growl accompanied the violent jerk of Sam's head as he bucked and squirmed, fighting to get away from the overbearing Englishman. He kicked his legs out, catching his feet on the metal frame of the bed but he was too heavily restrained to get loose.

 _"I'm going to come back in a little while Sam – give you a chance to rest. I suggest you do just that. You'll feel much better for it."_ Thomas' voice floated up again as he stood, patting Sam's arm before turning and walking back towards the entrance.

"I can't do this," Jody choked, slamming the mug down on the table and getting up, Sam's horrified, desperate moans rising up around her. "I'll start packing up the stuff we need to take," she mumbled, turning away from the laptop and walking out, leaving Ketch to continue monitoring the footage.

oOo

 **Edge of Platte River, outskirts of Yutan, Nebraska**

It had been a long time since Dean had visited any of the old hunter cabins. In fact, they hadn't been to many at all since they'd made the bunker their home. Yet he still remembered the comfort he associated with the shabby huts that were always nestled deep in the forests of the different states, far from wanderers and prying eyes. They were places where he and Sam could go and treat their wounds, rest and recharge in relative comfort. They were usually stocked with the kind of things they needed on hunts too. It made sense that Sam would come to one and this was the nearest to the bunker. When his little brother had left, he'd had nothing: no cash, no car, no phone. Of course, getting a car was never going to be difficult for a Winchester and the other items shouldn't have been a problem either, but Sam clearly wasn't thinking straight. He hadn't even changed out of the white pyjamas that Thomas had kept him in.

Not that Dean was surprised.

The memory of the fear lighting Sam's eyes stabbed at him whenever he thought about it; the image burning behind his eyelids every time he blinked. Hearing the dictaphone recording had made him understand the look, but it didn't mean that he could accept it.

His own brother was terrified of him. Because he thought he was Lucifer.

It didn't seem to matter how many times Dean repeated that to himself. He just couldn't seem to make it stick enough to believe it. Denial was seeping through him, oozing through his mind in constantly waves. His gut instinct was to find Sam, to make him understand, but his head told him he couldn't – that Sam would run the moment he saw him.

"You think very loudly, Dean," Cas remarked sombrely as the Impala rumbled to a stop.

"I don't," Dean grumbled petulantly. He cut the ignition and the roar of the Impala died instantly. They sat in silence for a moment, Dean's grip still tight on the wheel. Cas looked at him out of the corner of his eye, waiting, but Dean's look remained stoic. The seconds passed and with a sudden jerk, the hunter yanked his door open and got out of the car without a word, heading straight for the dark cabin with long strides. Cas pursed his lips and opened his own door quietly, following a few paces behind.

The cabin was dark: they weren't expecting Sam to be there. If they had, Dean wouldn't be striding towards the building without pause. As much as he wanted to see Sam, he knew that it wasn't the best thing for his brother right now. And that hurt. A lot.

He yanked on the door handle and it opened easily, his footsteps thumping against the wooden floorboards. Switching on the light, he took in the sight of the abandoned cabin. Everything was covered in a thin layer of dust, disturbed in a few places. His footsteps were hollow as he stepped inside, letting his gaze roam across the space. It settled on the doorway to the bedroom and his feet were carrying him over in an instant.

"Isn't that…" Cas started, staying near the door.

"A gunshot hole," Dean murmured, running his fingers over the splintered wood. The exposed fractures in the wood were clearly recent and there were chunks of timber littering the floor. Peering into the bedroom, Dean saw the crumpled bedcovers and the shotgun lying haphazardly on top of them. Sam wouldn't have left it lying around like that. At least, he wouldn't have before. Now? Dean wasn't really sure what Sam would or wouldn't do.

"I don't see any signs of a struggle," Cas remarked, a frown crinkling his brow. Dean picked up the shotgun, noting the empty casings when he snapped the barrel open.

"It was only Sam here," he replied gruffly, snapping the shotgun closed again and dropping it back on the bed. He turned and met Cas' confused look. "He's not thinkin' straight – he's runnin' scared and it's affectin' his judgement."

"Dean…"

"Don't!" he snapped, running a hand back through his hair. If Sam was shooting holes in the doors, he was dangerous. He was in danger. And Dean couldn't do anything about it. Lowering his hand, he dragged it down over his face, locking eyes with the angel. "Look, I know, Cas, I get it. But I just…need to _talk_ to him. I need him to listen."

Cas' mouth twisted down, his brow furrowed. He didn't like seeing either of the Winchesters suffering and unable to stop it. It was…frustrating. Things were supposed to be better once they'd found Sam.

"And the worst part?" Dean continued, shoving his hands back in his jeans pockets, his shoulder hunched. "I can't. I can't get within sight of him or he'll freak."

"We'll work something out," Cas replied, unsure of what else to say. Dean didn't need empty reassurances of promises that he couldn't keep. He cast one last look around the cabin. "We should move on. There's nothing more here. Where would Sam go next?"

Dean chewed his lip, looking around. Cas could almost see the cogs whirring in his mind as he mapped out the surrounding states and towns. Years of driving around the country had left both brothers with an almost flawless mental map.

"Normal Sam would keep going; he needs cash and a phone. He'd need to get new credit cards or hustle for it."

"But he's not 'normal' Sam. What would he do when he's not thinking properly?" Cas prodded.

"He still needs cash ," Dean replied, considering the question. "He's not with it enough for card, so he'll try hustlin' if he's up to it – stealin' if he's not. He'll need to do it somewhere where he can disappear so small towns are out but he's probably runnin' on fumes – both the car he jacked and 'cause he's not slept properly – which means that he won't have got far. Nearest place north is gonna be Norfolk."

Cas gave him a grim smile. "Then that's where we go next."

oOo

 **Lebanon, Kansas**

Ketch was once again sat in the library, at the head of the long table, a mug of tea on his left and his laptop in front of him. They'd arrived back at the bunker a few hours ago, choosing to rest after their long trek back from Chicago. The house in Lakewood had been left with no trace of them or of Thomas, Anna and Sam. The Englishman was meticulous and well-versed in clearing all traces of his activities, but he'd welcomed Jody's expertise in crime scenes. Together, they'd collected everything that they need to analyse and anything that could be traced back to the Men of Letters or the hunters, disposing of the latter on their way back.

Now, Ketch had woken from a restful few hours – little disturbed his sleep – to find a note from the sheriff explaining her journey back to Sioux Falls and her lab where she wanted to get the water analysed. He'd only slept for five hours; it would seem she'd been hounded by nightmares of what they'd seen. For Ketch, such inconveniences were rarely, if ever, a problem. He didn't get emotionally attached enough to let things get in the way of his assignments.

Armed with his tea and a few undisturbed hours, the Englishman was reviewing more of the footage from the cellar at the farmhouse. Jody hadn't been able to see the CCTV footage's true value: they could see, first hand, just how Thomas had managed to condition Sam. If they could review it and understand it, they could hopefully reverse it. Yet, Jody had paled, her complexion turning pallid at the few minutes she'd managed to watch. Ketch couldn't imagine Dean being up to the task of watching such treatment of his brother. Luckily for them, Ketch didn't really care; it was simply footage of a past event. He could sympathise with Sam but that wasn't useful. No: he needed to empathise with Thomas.

And that, the older Winchester would never be able to do.

Ketch had fast-forwarded through most of the first day: he was interested in the moments when Thomas appeared. He would view some of the moments when Sam was alone later, but, as any good interrogator knew, the subject needed to be left alone for a few hours in isolation to begin breaking them down. Left as he was, Sam had no real concept of time and he would have been too pumped with adrenaline to sleep. Thomas wouldn't have needed any other mind games at this stage.

Apathetic grey eyes stared at the screen, a pen poised in his hand, jotting down notes as he watched. He'd already seen Thomas appear, giving Sam a drink of water – not letting him drink for himself, thus making him totally reliant on Thomas from the word go – telling him how he wanted to make the hunter happy. Ketch scribbled a quick note in his journal: _associations of positivity with T._ It made sense; continued reference to all positive outcomes in association with the former Man of Letters could only strengthen Sam's reliance on him.

 _"Everything is your choice, Sam. It really is that simple."_ Thomas' assurance was calm yet forceful. The creation of the 'choice' was adroit; anything negative that occurred was henceforth Sam's fault. Sam's vexation was clear when Thomas pulled away and stood up, walking over to a small bin in the corner of the room. Ketch kept his eyes locked on the Winchester, noting that he constantly watched Thomas; his gaze almost unblinking.

 _"So why am I here?"_ Sam stilled sounded defiant, despite a minute flicker of uncertainty in the low stresses of his voice. He was afraid. He had every right to be. The subjects never liked the uncertainty that came with the removal of control.

 _"I told you: we're going to start afresh."_ Thomas was rummaging through the metal cabinet, pulling out a bundle of white cloth.

 _"That's a load of horse cra-"_ Ketch watched Thomas snap his head around and, while his expression was partially obscured, Sam's reaction was clear as day. He shifted uneasily and licked his lips before readjusting his phrasing. _"I don't believe you."_

Ketch paused the footage. That was interesting; Sam's reaction implied that he was perhaps already more conditioned than they had anticipated. Beneath his bravado, Sam already knew his place. Clearly, that was something Thomas knew and was willing to use to his advantage. Ketch found himself mildly impressed: Thomas had never had formal interrogation training – certainly not to the extent Ketch had – but he was certainly a quick study with the psychology of his task. Had he realised, Ketch would've employed him on his special ops team long ago.

He pressed play again.

 _"Well, I'm sorry you feel that way."_

 _"You can't honestly think I'm going to willing go anywhere with you, do you? Thomas, you helped Toni torture me for months. You force-fed me demon blood before trying to palm me off to Lucifer. Then, you hurt my brother and abduct me, fully admitting that the only way you can keep me here is to chain me up. You've got to realise how crazy that sounds right?"_ Sam didn't even seem to know he was already being influenced. His arguments were valid: voicing them made them real for him. The Englishman wouldn't have seen it that way; his lack of reaction proved Ketch's theory. They were hollow statements. He'd picked up a pair of scissors from the shelf and turned back to Sam, but nothing in his body language suggested he was anything but calm. He'd expected Sam's reasoning – Ketch hadn't expected anything else from the hunter either. Thomas would never have agreed with Sam; to agree would validate it and that was the opposite of what he wanted. He stood over Sam, pausing, but his face was turned away from the camera.

 _"What if I told you I was protecting you?"_ Ketch paused it again, scribbling furiously in his notebook. Right from the moment he'd taken Sam, Thomas had clearly been fully immersed in his own version of what he was doing. It made perfect sense; he wouldn't be able to convince Sam if he didn't believe it himself. Ketch had no doubt that Thomas had believed he was protecting Sam. Yes, he wanted revenge on Dean for getting Toni killed, but it went much deeper than that. The revenge was the additional benefit of his strategy rather than the summit of his work. Yet again, the Englishman found himself able to empathise; being able to exude a sense of calm and authority at all times was difficult to maintain and Thomas was doing so perfectly. One's subject had to feel like their arguments were invalid. Sam was in the early denial stage; he would demonstrate flairs of anger, probably as vocal outbursts, at some point – probably soon – as the futility of his situation sank in.

 _"What're you doing?"_ Sam's voice was full of trepidation and he shifted uneasily as Thomas bent over him. His task was concealed from the camera by his hunched frame, but Ketch knew what he was doing. Removing the mark's clothing was a simple tactic: for some situations, the vulnerability that came with its removal was enough to begin wearing them down. That wouldn't be Thomas' ploy though; he still appeared to have respect for Sam, despite what he was doing. No, for him, it was about removing the hunter's identity. The audio drifting through the speakers confirmed it.

 _"You can't stay in the same clothes; it's hardly practical and, before you say it, no: I don't trust you enough to let you dress yourself."_

Their conversation continued, Sam's responses getting more agitated the more layers Thomas took away. Ketch put his pen down, picking up his mug and sipping at his tea as he watched Thomas remove Sam's shackles one at a time, explaining what he was doing with a tone that was both patronising and threatening. Everything about what he did demonstrated his absolute control and Sam knew it. Watching him, Ketch could see his frustration mounting. It wouldn't be long until he did something Thomas didn't like. Or, at least, made a show of disapproving. If Ketch was expecting it, Thomas was probably hoping for it. He would use it against Sam, twisting it to suit his needs.

 _"Protect me from what?"_ Sam repeated his question through clenched teeth as Thomas pulled his new shirt down, covering his torso.

 _"That I can't tell you. You're not ready yet."_

 _"You can't claim something like that and then keep me in the dark about it!"_ Ketch picked up his pen again, leaning in closer as Sam shouted. He knew what Thomas would do – it was a technique he'd used often enough – but he needed the confirmation.

 _"Sam…"_ Thomas' voice was laced with warning, but Sam's fear and helplessness was getting the better of him.

 _"No! I deserve to know! What the hell could be worse than you, you twisted son of a bitch?"_ Sam snarled, his scowl deep and livid. Ketch watched Thomas go absolutely still. A few moments passed, dragging out the seconds for Sam, letting him realise that he'd made a mistake. Silently, Thomas stepped back up towards the top end of the bed, stooping to grab something from the chair.

 _"That sounded an awful lot like ingratitude to me, Sam. Such a shame; we were making such progress,"_ Thomas' sigh was heavy as he stepped closer. Sam shifted.

Ketch was never one for the dramatics when he was breaking someone, but he couldn't deny Thomas had a flair for it. To Sam, Thomas had looked on the verge of anger, followed by disappointment. Ketch saw the theatrics in it; Thomas hadn't been angry at all. He was waiting for this moment. He'd told Sam that he'd had choices and that everything that happened to him was because of them. This was Thomas' moment to prove that. Sam, like all subjects, had fallen for it.

 _"Wait! No!"_ Sam's shout was futile as Thomas lunged forwards. Sam was obscure from the camera, but his howls of protest resounded around the library while Ketch watched his torso buck and thrashing. He saw Thomas yank hard and a moan of protest sounded as the Englishman stood up and stepped back, the gagged hunter now visible, shaking his head, trying to loosen the tight material.

 _"I gave you more warnings than you deserved. Your language was hardly civil. As I said before; everything that happens to you is your choice. Let's continue shall we?"_

Ketch continued watching, completely dispassionate about the whole scene. Analysing footage from difficult missions had been a key part of his role for a long time. He'd debriefed on countless hunts that had gone wrong, ending with fatalities and occasionally the torture of his fellow Chapter members. Some, he'd even trained; they were as close to sentimental connections as he got. Watching an almost complete stranger like Sam was akin to reading about a character's death in a book that he hadn't read; the Englishman knew that it would affect some – certainly Dean – but not him. It's what made him so good at what he did and he was proud of that.

 _"This just arrived, Thomas. I thought you'd want it as soon as possible."_ Anna had appeared, handing him a small brown packet. Ketch frowned as Thomas tucked the envelope into his jacket pocket before turning back to Sam while Anna left.

 _"Sam, I need you to understand that all of this is for your benefit. You think I'm being cruel and unkind. That's not my intention; I don't want to be. I want to trust you, but trust is earned where I come from. The more you show me that I can, the more things I can give you. Things like access to the facilities up at the house – the shower and the like. I'm sure you'd like that. But that's something we're going to have to negotiate between us. I really am looking out for you – protecting you, putting your wellbeing first. One day, you'll thank me for this – I'm sure of it."_

Thomas' words had been picked carefully – Ketch wouldn't have been surprised if he'd rehearsed the speech. He'd known he'd be able to use it. Sam continued to stare at the wall, making a show of not listening, but Ketch knew he would be. He couldn't not. All the statements Thomas used: _"I need", "I want," "we're going to"_ were designed to have the biggest impact by imploring to Sam's sense of self-preservation.

 _"I know, Sam, I know. But it's only for when I'm gone. You'll be alright."_ Thomas' voice was soothing as he applied a blindfold to the hunter. He straightened up again and pulled the small envelope out of his pocket again. Whatever it contained, he hadn't wanted Sam to see it. Thomas' arm moved as he fiddled with the package before slipping what Ketch assumed was the now empty envelop back in his jacket with his left hand. His right hand – the one presumably holding whatever had been in the packet – was obscured from the camera's view. Ketch frowned as Thomas bent down again near Sam's upper body. He was applying something to the hunter but Ketch couldn't see what. All he could hear were Sam's surprised groans.

Eventually, he moved away from Sam and walked out, but Ketch paused the footage, squinting at the screen. Whatever Thomas had done wasn't obvious to begin with. With a few clicks of his mouse, the Englishman enlarged the image, selecting from above Sam's head to his upper torso. A few more clicks turned the magnification from a pixelated mess to its initial clarity. Ketch scanned down Sam's half covered face, his grey eyes halting at the base of the Winchester's throat. Lucky for Ketch the camera was high up or he wouldn't have seen the object at the correct angle. A necklace shone in the light from above. The pendant was round and flat, an intricate Enochian symbol ornately designed. Ketch didn't recognise the symbol, but the necklace hadn't been there before. It had to have importance for Thomas to use it. Taking a screenshot of it, he typed a quick email to the Ritualist Team before attaching the image and sending it. They would know its use and that would help Ketch to identify why Sam hadn't been wearing it when they found him.

Sitting back, Ketch closed that particular clip, satisfied. He looked at his watch. Time for lunch.

oOo

 **Norfolk, Nebraska**

The Impala's door squealed and thumped as Dean slid back in, looking over at Castiel who watched him expectantly.

"Okay, so he's definitely here. The girl even called him 'the giant with the long hair'," Dean explained, rolling his eyes at the memory of the girl's expression as she popped gum with her teeth. "Said he's in room eleven. I think he's drivin' that old wreck." He pointed at a rusting Dodge Challenger with Kansas plates that was sat in the motel's parking lot, far from where he'd parked the Impala. If Sam saw the car, he'd bolt and they couldn't risk that – not yet – so Dean had erred on the side of caution and parked down the street out of the glow of the streetlights.

They'd tracked Sam west up the US-275, stopping at a Gas'n'Sip which confirmed they were on the right road before coming across an officer collecting statements after a slew of thefts from cars and trucks in and around the parking lot for a dive bar. Using his FBI credentials, Dean had simultaneously offered assistance and gleaned the information he needed from the young police officer in one go. No one had seen anything and it only seemed to be petty cash that had been taken. Both answers Dean had expected.

What he hadn't expected was the ache that came with it. Looking at the bar, he'd seen it exactly for what it was: an easy job. It was rundown but popular with locals, some already drunk by the time they'd got there in the afternoon. There was a large, inviting pool table and plenty of targets. It would've been easy for Sam to challenge a couple of locals, lose a few games before twisting it in the final match and taking it all.

But Sam hadn't been able to do it. Dean knew the reason instantly: he was terrified.

 _"Why don't you think anything is real?"_

 _"Because none of this is. I'm the only thing that is."_

His little brother thought the whole world was out to get him – literally. They'd driven around looking for local motels, Dean mentally crossing them off until they'd come to the Super Eight Motel. Its cream walls glowed yellow in the streetlights and its parking lot was almost empty. Sam would want somewhere quiet. The more people around, the more likely he was to succumb to his own paranoia. It was already doing a number on him; the girl in the motel had commented on how she'd never seen anyone get out of the office so quick before. Sam was stuck: he'd needed somewhere to crash but do so he had to interact with people who he thought would tell Lucifer.

"What do you want to do, Dean?" Cas asked softly.

"Everythin' I can't," Dean huffed, staring out of the windshield. "I wanna see him. Then I'll know he's okay. Physically anyway."

"I doubt you could get close enough to see him without him seeing you," Cas observed. Dean nodded and then frowned as an idea struck.

" _I_ can't, you're right. But you could," he insisted, turning on the angel, his eyes eager. "Think about it: he might think you're okay! Maybe, if he thinks this is all in his head, he'd believe that you 'got in' somehow? He'd talk to you."

"Dean, I can't lie to him…"

"Yeah, you can. Cas, we gotta get him to trust us and if that means you, then that's somethin'," Dean pushed, his lips pursing. "Please, Cas, we gotta try. Worst case, he runs. He can't hurt you. At least we would've tried somethin'."

The angel didn't like it, but Dean's desperation was almost palpable. He couldn't let him down, not again. After being banished – twice – in the times when the brothers had needed him the most, Cas wanted a way to redeem himself. Not that Dean saw his banishment as a failure, but he did and that was enough.

"Fine, but you'll need to stay here," Cas sighed. Dean opened his mouth to argue, but closed it. He knew the angel was right.

"Just…try to get through to him, okay?" he asked quietly, his voice gruff. Cas nodded and opened the door, his coat flapping in the wind as he got out.

oOo

The dingy room was bathed in darkness, fought back by the two dim bedside lamps that cast weak yellow lights up the putrid green walls. A faint musty smell loitered in the air, perforating the whole room, seeping deep into the carpet fibres. It was the same stench that Sam had experienced in countless motel rooms. It was such a familiar part of the motel experience that he would've been more suspicious if his mind hadn't been able to recreate it. A few months ago, it would've almost smelt like home.

Now it was another layer of oppression that made his eyes water as he fought the bile that wanted to rise in his throat. He'd only been in the room for a few hours and he didn't know how long he'd be able to stand it enough to even sleep. Standing in the bathroom, Sam cupped his hands beneath the tap, splashing the cool water up into his face and running a wet hand back through his hair, pushing it out of his face. Raising his eyes to the mirror, he barely recognised the haunted look staring back at him.

How the hell had he got like this?

A soft click echoed behind him, sending a rigid shiver straight up his spine, wide grey eyes full of panic filling the mirror.

Someone was there.

 _Oh god. He's here._

Air evaporated out of his lungs, leaving him frozen in the spot, unable to move, hands gripping the porcelain sink so hard his knuckles whitened. The frightened eyes slid over to the right, peering out of their corners; there was one tiny window that he'd never be able to fit through.

He was trapped.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he sort to kickstart his lungs again. He had to get out. Now. Opening them again, Sam let his gaze slide beyond his own face in the mirror, looking to the left and over his shoulder. His throat closed.

Standing in the same familiar beige coat, his tie loose and his frown concerned, stood Castiel. Every little detail in his face was a perfect copy of the original. Sam hadn't realised how much it would _hurt_ to see his friend. The angel stood with his hands raised, palms up, showing he wasn't armed. Sam felt the lump of his handgun nestled against the small of his back. It was all he had but it wasn't enough against the imitation of the angel.

"Sam? It's alright. It's just me," Cas watched Sam carefully, noting the rigid line of his shoulders, the panic in the grey eyes that stared at him through the mirror. Tension oozed from him. Mentally, Castiel cursed; this wasn't going to go well. "I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to talk. I wanted to see that you're alright."

A hysterical laugh bubbled up inside the Winchester but he swallowed it down, feeling it wedge in his throat. He wasn't alright. He would never be alright. Definitely not while he was trapped in the tiny bathroom with Lucifer's puppet stalling him in the main room. If Cas was here, Lucifer wouldn't be far behind.

"Sam? What do you need me to do to make you feel safe?" the fake angel asked, sending doubt rippling through Sam. It was a ploy – a sick part of the game.

 _They want you to think you're safe, but, as long as they're around, you won't be._

Thomas' voice murmured in his mind, bringing a wave of nausea so strong that Sam swayed on his feet. His gripped tightened on the sink. He needed to pull himself together. If he didn't, Lucifer would come.

Cas stood, waiting for Sam's reply, but so far the youngest Winchester had yet to say a word. He could hear Sam's heart thumping, concerned by just how fast it was. Yes, he was scared and panicking but there was something else. It tripped, stuttering every few beats. Something was…wrong. Cas had spent long enough around humans to be able to spot their ailments long before they did. And Sam didn't know it yet.

"I'm not working with Lucifer, Sam; I'm here to help you. You know you can trust me," Cas implored, watching the sharpening in the slate grey eyes when he struck a cord. "I know you're struggling to tell what's real and what's not…"

All he could feel was the lump at the base of his spine. Phasing out the intruder's words, Sam tried to calculate his moves. He'd need to be quick; he'd only get one chance. One and then they'd all be after him.

"…If you listen, I can help. That's all I want to do," Castiel insisted, hoping his words were getting through, but he got the distinct feeling they weren't.

"You can't help me. No one can," Sam's reply caught him off guard; his voice was hoarse, like he hadn't spoken so many words in a long time. Cas blinked, opening his mouth to respond when he heard a deafening crack and felt pain bloom through his thigh, sending him crashing to his knees, temporarily, in surprise. His hands clamped around his leg, blood pooling between his fingers. Wind brushed past him, snapping his head up.

"Sam, wait!" he shouted, but the Winchester was gone; the door to the motel room swinging open and the roar of a truck resonating around him.

Dammit.

oOo

 **I think I'm enjoying Ketch's psychology far too much!**

 **Let me know what you think!**


	5. On the Edge

**Thank you for all the reviews/follows/favourites! You guys are awesome!**

oOo

 _"Cause the river's running high and there's no going back."_

 _\- For the River, Nickelback_

oOo

 **Outskirts of Battle Creek, Nebraska**

It had been barely twenty minutes since he'd run, but Sam's heart hadn't slowed. It pounded relentlessly in his chest, sending tremors vibrating down both arms, leaving his knuckles white as he clenched the steering wheel so tightly that it was painful. It sent wave after wave of spasms down his injured arm, the sling doing nothing to still it. His breaths came in short sharp gasps that he couldn't get under control, no matter how hard he tried.

How had he been found so quickly?! He'd been so careful, keeping his exposure with other 'people' to a minimum. And yet, as soon as he'd interacted with them, within hours, the fake Cas had appeared. It didn't matter that it wasn't Lucifer himself; Sam's panic-stricken mind couldn't differentiate between the devil and his associates. Considering Lucifer could take on any form he liked, there was every possibility that he'd just shot the devil himself. A tiny voice questioned why Lucifer would let him go, but it was lost amongst the maelstrom in his head.

Sweat beaded and slipped down his skin, drenching around the base of his hairline. His hair fell forwards into his eyes, stinging, but with his one good hand wrapped around the wheel, Sam couldn't push it back. And still his breathing wouldn't slow, his heart wouldn't settle.

 _Why am I so weak? Thomas, what did you do to me?_

A sudden wave of nausea, violent and overpowering, engulfed him and he swallowed the bile that threatened to rise. Glancing feverishly into the rear-view mirror, he saw the darkness extend behind him. Ahead was no different. Yanking the wheel, the car shrieked as he pulled it off the road, onto the verge, bumping to a halt. Turning off the engine, the silence invaded the inside, battling against the roar of blood pounding in his ears.

 _Why did you leave me?_

An anguished howl ripped from his throat as he beat the steering column with his hand, pummelling it in a fit of explosive rage. All he wanted was to feel _safe_! Every thrashing movement of his right arm jolted the gunshot wound in his left, but Sam didn't care, didn't feel it. The helpless frustration just grew inside him with every hit.

Finally, he sagged forward, spent, letting his forehead rest against the cold wheel, twin dark circles spreading across the denim of his jeans on either thigh.

oOo

 **Westminster, London**

"Are you with us, Mr Ketch?"

The British Men of Letters' boardroom was simply decorated yet full of imposing character, much like the chapter's members. Soft light glowed from the gold sconces hanging on the chestnut-clad walls which were polished to a high lustre, reflecting back the incandescent light. The most impressive aspect of the room was its table. Crafted from solid cocobolo, it radiated a high gloss sheen with a reddish tint, perfuming the whole room with a faint spiced scent that soothed all who entered – for the Men of Letters, it was the smell of power, and of home. Twelve matching chairs, six of which were currently occupied, surrounded the table. One wall was dominated by a large flat screen television, which flickered to life, revealing Ketch sat in the bunker.

"I'm here, Mr Markham," Ketch replied, his voice echoing around the room. Jonathan Markham, the head of the British chapterhouse, was sat at the end of the table opposite the television, a swathe of paper before him and his associates. He was an imposing man in his late fifties: broad-shouldered with close cut silvery hair, piercing blue eyes and a neatly trimmed beard covering the lower half of his face. He filled the room with an air of authority that was palpable. Currently he sat, leaning forwards, his eyes sweeping over the information before him, papers in each hand as he studied them carefully. A younger man, clean-shaven with sharp, careful eyes, was stood on Markham's right, the other five members fixing their stares on him as he spoke.

"Mr Ketch has been meticulous with his findings and the cataloguing of evidence generated from Thomas Maguire's operation. I have backup copies of everything he has sent to us thus far," the man praised, giving Ketch a curt nod. Jonathan frowned at the symbol on the page before him.

"Come on, William, don't keep us in suspense; what have you found?" he ordered, although his tone remained patient. The younger man, William, pressed a button on the remote in his hand, Ketch disappearing off the screen to be replaced by a large, high definition shot of the symbol that had been found on the floor in the warehouse.

"Can you see the feed, Mr Ketch?" he asked.

"Perfectly."

"Good. The symbol you found on the floor shares some similarities with the Enochian language, but its foundation is actually in ancient Hebrew, dating back to 300BC. In 150BC, we found evidence of this symbol being used in sacrificial rituals – specifically human ones," William clarified before pressing the remote again, switching to close ups of several of the symbols that had been painted on Dean. "Now, these rituals had several purposes depending on the variation of the spell that was used. Mostly it appeared to be used to increase wealth or, ironically, to cleanse the soul. The information you gave us, Mr Ketch, with these symbols painted in lamb's blood and used in conjunction with this text–" he flashed up the picture of the text Thomas had been ready to use "– has lead us to conclude that he was about to perform what was known as the _A-yeen Mishpahhah_ : a ritual that bastardised the bond between familial members and transferred it onto the one performing it."

"What does that mean exactly?" Ketch prompted through the speakers. William shifted on his feet.

"Essentially, by sacrificing the target's closest – emotionally speaking – family member, the caster mutates those emotions, enhances them and redirects them onto themselves. The target loses all semblance of freewill: all they become concerned with is their new 'father'. I believe that that is exactly what Thomas was attempting to do. He was prepared to sacrifice Dean to have ultimate, unwavering control over Sam. If the ritual hadn't be halted, Sam would have lost everything he considered a part of his identity. It's a heinous ritual."

A few of the Men of Letters shifted uncomfortably. While they had their own codes and laws, none of it equated to a full loss of freewill. Such a notion was…unfathomable. Markham pushed aside the photographs, picking up a different as he pushed back the bile that sloshed in his stomach. He had admired Dean immensely and the thought that it was his own people that had repeatedly attacked Dean's brother and were willing to go to such extremes sent a deluge of guilt through him. Yet not a flicker was visible to the others. The Head of the Men of Letters did not show weakness.

"Tell me about what else you have learned," he instructed as William nodding, changing the screen again to one of the necklace that Ketch had taken a screenshot of from the CCTV footage.

"This piece was much easier to identify as it's Enochian. Essentially, the wearer becomes cloaked from all angels. Usually, while angels cannot possess a human without permission, they are able to communicate telepathically – either directly or through dreams. What this piece does is block this communication entirely: even if the person wearing it prays to the angels," William explained.

"Hence why Castiel has been unable to reach out to Sam throughout this whole debacle," Markham murmured, steepling his fingers in front of him, his elbows resting on the table.

"Sam wasn't wearing it when we found him though; I found it amongst Thomas' possessions at the house," Ketch interjected, popping back up on the screen when William pressed a button. "However, it is definitely the same symbol that I found when visiting the ironmongers in Emporia. I had my suspicions that this symbol was made into the brand which was confirmed when I found the branding iron at the farmhouse."

"A necklace can be removed: a brand cannot," Markham remarked, turning his gaze to William. "Would it still work in the same manner?"

"Yes, sir," William nodded. "It's just like the symbol many hunters have been known to tattoo on themselves to prevent demon possession."

"So Castiel still won't be able to communicate with Sam," Ketch stated, confirmed a moment later by William.

"Is there anything else that needs to be fed back?" Markham asked. William shook his head.

"Ms Mills is currently having the water we found at the house in Lakewood Balmoral tested for toxins, however I would like to speak with William further to begin doing our own tests on it," Ketch replied.

"You believe it to be tampered with in the more mystical sense?"

"With Thomas, sir, anything appears to be possible and therefore nothing should be ruled out," Ketch answered. Markham closed the manila folders and stacked them neatly in front of him, waiting a moment, collecting himself, before speaking again.

"William you will continue to assist Mr Ketch with his inquiries: this is your team's top priority above all else until this whole fiasco has been rectified," he ordered. "Mr Ketch, I will speak to Dean to discuss our findings. I know you could, but I would like you to continue your research and I must speak with Dean as it is. However, I would like you to stay with the Winchesters and assist in any way necessary to help get Sam back to the hunter he was before we intruded into their lives."

"Of course, sir. I will do what must be done," Ketch nodded, his tone unchanged. Sometimes Markham wondered how Ketch managed to remain so dispassionate. And, yet, most of the time, he was simply glad that he was.

"See that you do. I would like another update at the same time tomorrow. See you then," he instructed, closing the video link.

What a complete shambles.

oOo

 **NE-14 North, outskirts of Neligh, Nebraska**

"I'm sorry, Dean," Cas murmured for what felt like the hundredth time.

"Cas, stop. It ain't your fault," Dean reassured again. It didn't seem to be sticking though. It was yet another of the Winchester traits that the angel had managed to adopt over the years. The trio's self-flagellation whenever something went wrong always seemed to take over. Dean wondered how long Cas had been doing it for before he'd really begun to notice. He glanced over briefly before turning his eyes back to the road. "We knew it probably wasn't gonna work. There was no way we couldn't not try it."

The moment Sam had hightailed it from the motel, the rattling howl of the Dodge's engine screaming through the quiet streets, Dean had spun the Impala into the parking lot, Cas jumping in without missing a beat. They had followed the truck from a safe distance down the US-275, turning onto the NE-14, all the while keeping almost a mile back at all times. Thanks to the angel's heightened senses, keeping Sam in view wasn't all that difficult. It had come in useful when the Dodge had suddenly veered off the road – almost as if Sam had crashed – only to park up. Dean had killed the lights, driving tentatively using the moonlight and Cas' direction. Luckily for all of them, the road was deserted. For the first time, Dean cursed Baby's rumbling growl. On the deserted road, it sounded almost deafening, sparking a sense of apprehension in the hunter even though, logically, he knew Sam couldn't hear it. But, his baby brother was already spooked enough without them booming up behind him.

Eventually, unwilling to take chances, Dean had pulled over long before he'd needed to, waiting for Sam to move on. They'd sat there in silence, watching the road ahead, looking for the tell-tale sign of the Dodge's lights flaring back to life. Without any idea of why Sam had stopped, it had been a long wait.

Now, they'd been on the move again for a little over forty minutes, but Sam's driving had been slow and sporadic. Cas had watched the Dodge swerving across the road, jerking back to the centre of the lane in sharp bursts of movement. Dean had crept the Impala closer than he would've liked, but Sam didn't even appear to realise there was a car behind him, let alone recognise it.

"Where do you think he's headed?" Cas asked, breaking the silence.

"To be honest? I have no idea. I figure we're just gonna have to tail him 'til he stops. Whenever that is," he grumbled.

"How long for, Dean? That isn't a viable plan. Sam isn't just going to stop and let us in," Cas pointed out. Dean's hands clenched around the wheel, the muscle in his jaw working as he fought to hold onto his fraying temper.

"I don't know. But unless you can think of a better idea that'll tell me if he's okay without me stalkin' him, I'm all ears," he snapped, barely keeping his voice below a shout. The angel remained silent – he couldn't suggest anything; he still couldn't tap into Sam's mind telepathically, the warding on his ribs shielded him and he was a Winchester. When they didn't want to be found, they were nigh on impossible to track down. Dean's deep rumble filled the car. "Until we know more, this is what we gotta keep doin'."

oOo

 **Sioux Falls, South Dakota**

The lab in the Sioux Falls Sheriff Department was completely spotless. Jody's team were professionals through and through, running a unit as efficient as any big city testing lab. They took pride in their work and it showed. Until all of this had happened, Jody had never truly appreciated how invaluable their work ethic was.

She'd shown up without warning, with the water sample she'd taken from the house in Lakewood Balmoral and asked Tara, the lead technician - a sharp witted Amazonian woman with a quick laugh and fierce loyalty – to analyse it without running the official paperwork. Tara had taken one look at the exhausted glint lurking in the back of Jody's eyes and the solemn downturn of her mouth before taking the water and getting to work straight away, dropping the priority of her other cases. It had been a tense couple of hours.

"Okay, let's see what we've got," Tara remarked as the printer connected to one of the machines whirred and finally spat out a page full of notes. Her delicate eyebrows scrunched together. "That's weird."

"What is?" Jody asked, already expecting her to say something involving the 'weird'. Nothing was every straightforward anymore.

"There's no chemical residue at all in the water beyond the usual traces of calcium, potassium and nitrates that you find in most bottle water," the technician explained, "but there's a whole list of other sources that are more than just trace elements."

"Like what?"

"Take a look," Tara replied, offering the paper. Jody took in and scanned over the list. Asafoetida, angelica, burdock, hemlock, white sage…the list was huge. "Does it mean anything to you?"

Jody looked up and gave Tara a grateful smile. "Not yet, but I know someone who'll get it. Thanks, Tara; I owe you."

"An extra day off for a mojito and a hot tub!" Tara called after Jody as she left.

"You got it!" Jody shouted, holding her phone up to her ear, listening to it ring twice before it was picked up.

"Ms Mills," Ketch's voice was smooth and warm. "What do you have?"

"No drugs were found in the water," she confirmed, holding up the sheet. "But there's a whole lotta other stuff in it. I'll text you a list of it all – see if you can work out what it is."

"With pleasure." The phone clicked off and Jody shook her head as she started typing. Relying on Ketch seemed to have become second nature in the last few days and it wasn't something she was happy about.

oOo

 **NE-14 North, Outskirts of Verdigre, Nebraska**

The heater was on full blast but he couldn't stop shivering. They were violent trembles that wracked through his whole body, spasming painfully, worse than before. It just kept getting worse. Sweat filmed on his forehead, dampening the edges of his hairline, making it stick and itch against his neck. Sam's shoulder throbbed and ached with the continuous jerks and shudders. His vision had tunnelled down to just the road ahead and he blinked hard constantly to try and keep it in focus. The road tilted and swayed as he wrestled with the steering wheel one-handed.

 _You're not looking so good, bunk buddy._

"Shut up," Sam moaned, hating the voice echoing in his mind. A second voice crooned when the first went silent.

 _It's alright, Sam. I'm here. I'm going to take care of you._

The sound of Thomas' voice sent his stomach heaving. Swinging to the right, Sam barely let the truck stop before he lurched out the door and fell onto the ground, vomiting black bile.

oOo

"Ah, shit, Sam, not again!" Dean groaned, panic squeezing his heart as he watched the Dodge slide to a halt on the side of the road. He pulled the Impala to a stop and cut the engine, squinting in the darkness ahead. "C'mon, Cas, talk to me. What's he doin'?"

The angel had leaned forward, frowning as he watched.

"He appears to have got out. I can't see what he's doing but he's crouched down," he replied. Dean didn't say anything back, but as the seconds became minutes, he began to shift uneasily. The urge to run out to his brother was overwhelming, every nerve telling him that something was wrong. Really wrong. "He's moved – I can't see him," Cas remarked, breaking the silence.

"Okay, that's it," Dean growled, grabbing the door handle.

"Dean, wait," Cas implored, putting his hand on the hunter's arm. Dean stilled and turned a glare on him. "You can't go down there. We don't know what'll happen if Sam sees you. At best, he runs. At worst…he already shot me. I doubt he'd hesitate to do the same to you in his current state."

He was right and Dean knew it.

"Fine," he grumbled, letting go of the door. "You go invisible girl and take a look."

Cas frowned at the phrase but opened his door and disappeared from view the moment it was closed again. Dean waited, alone in the dark, peering through the windshield, wishing he could see what was happening. Sam acting weirdly wasn't a new occurrence – hell, it was normal these days – but this felt different. Something was wrong – more wrong than before.

The loud vibration of his phone drummed against his leg and he wrenched it out of his pocket, pressing accept as soon as he saw Cas' name.

"You need to come down here. Now." Cas' voice was short and sharp – the closest he ever came to sounding panicked. The Impala roared to life and screeched onto the road, fishtailing as Dean sped down the quarter of a mile, skidding to a stop behind the Dodge. He was out of the car in an instant, running to the side of the truck, the Impala's lights flooding the area and shining on Castiel where he was crouched on the ground next to Sam.

Sam, who was curled on his side, his face ashen, tremors convulsing through his whole frame as he lay next to a strange black mess that looked almost like tar covering the grass. His eyes were closed and his good arm was clenched against his stomach. Dean knelt down next to him, gently lifting his head in both hands, feeling the heat burning on Sam's cheeks and the clammy sweat that was drenching his skin. A thin trail of black ran from the corner of his mouth down across his cheek. Dean wiped it away gently.

"Sam?! Can you hear me?" he called, his eyes fixed on his brother. No response. "What the hell's wrong with him?" he asked, glancing up quickly at Cas.

"I don't know. When I arrived, he was already unconscious," Cas explained, "I presume he has been vomiting whatever that is –" he pointed to the black substance "– but it appears to be a fever of some kind."

"So heal him already!"

"Dean, I tried," Cas replied, a note of exasperation entering his tone. "It didn't work, well, at least it didn't get rid of his fever. His other physical injuries are healed, although I'm not sure that was the best thing for me to do considering the fact that now he'll know we were here."

"Doesn't matter," Dean replied quietly, pressing his fingers to his brother's throat. His pulse was strong but erratic. "We can deal with that later, but we need to get him somewhere safe and work out what the hell's goin' on." He chewed his lip, looking back over his shoulder and then at the road ahead. "We're on the NE-14, right?"

"Near Verdigre."

"Then we're close to the Yankton Reservation. Me and Sam cleared out a vengeful spirit for some of the local a few years back – they'll help us out," he speculated, shifting around so that he was stood above Sam's head. He rolled his brother onto his back. "C'mon, help me get him to the Impala." Cas nodded and between them, they lifted the youngest Winchester, carrying him towards the passenger side of the car. "No, front seat," Dean instructed when Cas made to open the back door. He needed to have Sam by him – he couldn't check on him and drive if he was in the back.

Together, they managed to ease Sam into the car, laying him out across the front seat, his head on the driver's seat. Sam moaned and shift as he was put down, drawing his knees up into a foetal position again even though he didn't wake. For once, Dean really hoped that he didn't; the last thing he wanted was for Sam to see him and lose it. He couldn't even begin to describe how much that hurt. Shoving it down, he closed the door quietly and turned to Cas.

"Can you bring the truck? We can't leave it and, besides, Sammy's gonna need it back," he asked quietly and the angel nodded. Sam would leave again because he would be fine. He had to be fine. Fear, of their latest predicament and the whole mess caused by Thomas, stabbed through Dean, stealing his breath for a moment. He would sort this. They'd been through worse.

 _No, we really haven't._

Ignoring the cynical whispers in his mind, Dean clapped Cas once on the shoulder and circled around to the driver's side, opening the door and easing himself in, lifting Sam's head so that it rested on his leg.

"Dean," Sam whimpered and his heart clenched as he looked down, hoping, for just a moment, that Sam knew he was real and he was there. But it deflated quickly when he saw that Sam hadn't moved, hadn't woken. Resting a hand on his little brother's trembling shoulder, Dean started the engine. He might not believe Dean was real, but the hunter would be damned if he was going to let his brother down again.

"It's okay, Sammy. I got you. I'm here."

oOo

 **Reunited…but for how long? MWAHAHAHA!**

 **…Ahem. So who's up for some comfort from Dean? Please review!**


	6. Buzz of the Poison

**Thank you for all the reviews and follows/favourites! Apologies for taking so long (again). Unfortunately, it's a busy time of year for me, but I'm doing the best I can. Some readers have asked about the scene from the prologue – don't worry, I haven't forgotten about it (I'm super excited about it!) but I've got to set it up :)**

oOo

 _"Is this the moment where I look you in the eye?"_

 _\- Permanent, David Cook_

oOo

 **Yankton Reservation, Nebraska**

"Dean, I apologise for calling at this hour, but I'm glad you picked up," Jonathan Markham's tone was smooth and warming, but Dean still had to fight down the annoyance that flared up within him.

"I don't have time for a social, Markham," he growled, Cas turning intrigued eyes on him.

"Good, because this isn't a social call. My team have uncovered some crucial points regarding Thomas' motives and methods that you need to hear," Markham replied. Dean clenched his jaw and resisted the urge to huff through his nose.

"Alright, hang on," he grumbled, signalling to Cas to take over, giving him the cold compress he'd been using on Sam. He'd wrapped ice in a towel, avoiding using water, the memory of Sam's fearful reactions to the dripping sound rising to the surface of his mind from his detox after London.

The drive to the Yankton Reservation had seemed longer than it was, proving to be one of the most stressful drives Dean had ever done. Sam hadn't regained consciousness at all along the way. Dust had flown up the dirt track as Dean had sailed onto the reservation, greeted by Takoda Goulette – a solemn man in his early fifties who lowered his gun as soon as he recognised the car and Dean. The moment he saw Sam, lying prone across the front seat of the Impala, he had ushered the three of them into a small cabin situated around the back of his own abode. It was small but clean – cleaner than any hunter's cabin – with enough space to sleep four. They'd carried Sam into the master bedroom, laying his huge form out on the double bed that was pressed against one wall. Takoda had left with instructions to Dean that he was to send for him if he needed anything. He asked no questions and, for that, Dean was grateful.

The hunter left the cabin, moving out onto the veranda that was still and cool in the night air. He looked out across the darkness, feeling more isolated than ever. Shoving it down, he turned his concentration back to the phone.

"What've you got?" he asked gruffly.

"Quite a lot, although you won't like what I have to say," Markham answered honestly before launching into Ketch and William's findings. The more he spoke, the tighter Dean's grip on the phone got. The depths of Thomas' depravity was worse than even he thought possible. He swore – regularly – until he fell into a stony silence as the bile in his throat rose.

"Now," Markham began to conclude, "I am aware that Mr Ketch has…upset you –"

"No, he _drugged_ my _traumatised_ _brother_ when I was _sleepin'_ ," Dean snarled out each word, picturing Markham's wince on the other end.

"And I am truly sorry for that, Dean," Markham apologised. "I know his methods are rather…unorthodox, but he did it for the right reasons. I do believe he can still be of great assistance to you in this."

"Save it," Dean snapped. "I don't have time to be playin' nice with your attack dog. Sam's sick."

The line went silent for a moment.

"What do you mean he's sick?" Markham asked, his tone careful, measured.

"Like, 'pukin' black goo all over the place' sick so if we're done here –"

"Dean, wait!" Markham shouted. "That has to be linked to the water I was talking about. Ketch and Jody both said there was something wrong with it and Ketch is working on finding out what it is as we speak. I'll call him right back and see what progress he's made."

Dean swallowed, a new wave of fear rising, clawing its way through him. He hadn't wanted to think it was mystical, but, deep down, he'd known there was something worse than just regular sickness.

"Tell him to call when he's got somethin'," he murmured, ending the call.

They were so screwed.

oOo

The void sucked and pulled, hurling him from the pit back to the blistering light and down again in a constant tidal wave that refused to drown him. In the moments when consciousness took hold, his stomach heaved and convulsed, spewing forth another stream of the revolting acidic bile that burned his tongue and made him want to die. Not metaphorically – literally. He could barely remember the last time he'd felt so ill.

 _Sam…you're damaged in ways even I can't heal._

The words bounced around inside his head like pinballs, smacking against the inside of his skull, refusing to stop moving even when he grasped the sides of his head and tried to make them.

 _You know what I realised? I'm not…clean._

The memories of his failures were dredged up by the waves, smashing them to the forefront of his consciousness fleetingly before some – the gentler moments – were sucked back again, leaving small ripples of despair to expand and devour him.

 _Sammy, you were always my favourite._

It was whispered, crooned to him in the same tone Azazel had used the first time around. The shudder than ran down his spine was lost amongst the convulsions already wracking his body. Yellow filled his vision behind his eyelids, jeering at him. It kaleidoscoped, morphing into the familiar blue of Thomas' eyes, bringing up wave after wave of bile, before sliding back to the sickening yellow of Azazel's until he could no longer differentiate between them.

When he cracked his eyes open, burning with heat, the yellows and blues slid away, replaced by a green that made his chest ache.

oOo

Dean leaned over his brother, the cold cloth in his hand with ice wrapped inside it. Sam shivered and convulsed, his pale face soaked with sweat despite the chill of the cloth pressed to his forehead. His breath came out in short sharp gasps, a frown etched deep into his brow above eyes that cracked open a sliver.

"Sam?" Dean asked softly, leaning forward. The whites of his eyes were pink, the grey glassy and unseeing. He coughed and lurched, his chest heaving. "Cas, quick!" Dean barked, dropping the cloth as black began to bubble on Sam's lips. The angel rushed forward and helped roll the younger Winchester onto his side as Dean lifted a bucket just in time for him to spew forth a jet of black goo that made the hunter wince. He shifted from the chair he'd been perched on, moving to sit on the edge of the bed, in the small space by Sam's stomach, holding the bucket with one hand. "It's alright, Sammy, bring it up. It's okay," he soothed, rubbing his brother's back with his other hand. He doubted Sam could hear him, but it made himself feel better. Sam's shirt was drenched with cold sweat beneath his hand.

The convulsions passed after a few minutes; through it all, Sam never seemed to be fully conscious, sending another wave of barely contained panic fluttering through Dean. Cas passed him a wad of tissues which he used to gently wipe his brother's face. He threw it in bucket which he put back on the floor.

"Gimme a hand, Cas; we need to get his shirt off," Dean remarked, pushing Sam gently back over onto his back. The angel moved forwards, gripping the soaking material as Dean lifted Sam's torso, his head lolling back. Between them, they tugged his shirt off and got him lying back on his side again. Cas grabbed a blanket from one of the cupboards and walked back over to see Dean's horrified frown as his fingers brushed over his brother's shoulder. Leaning over, Cas looked down and saw the raised scar in a perfect circle with Enochian designs in its centre. The brand was pink with new skin, having not been healed for long.

"Why does he still have this? You healed him," Dean asked, his eyes almost pleading with Cas. He didn't want to see his brother permanently marked. Cas draped the blanket over Sam's shivering form while Dean tucked it in around him, covering the loathed brand.

"I don't know. I can only assume that the mark is warded in itself against angels," Cas murmured as he stood back. "There has to be a way to remove it."

"You still can't get in his head with it there can you?" Dean questioned further as he picked up the cold cloth again. Cas shook his head. Dean was silent for a moment, the minutes elongating; the silence only penetrated by Sam's occasional moans. "Is the marking on his ribs the same?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, could you take it off or is it permanent?"

"I put it there so I can remove it," Cas confirmed, frowning. "Why?"

"I want you to take it off," Dean replied quietly, his eyes never leaving Sam's face.

"Dean, if I do that, he'll be visible to all angels, including Lucifer," Cas warned, his tone grave.

"Dammit, Cas, I know that," Dean growled, his face full of anguish as he looked up at the angel. "But he's gonna up and leave again and we can't keep doin' what we're doin'. I'm scarin' him more than I'm helpin' just by bein' around. If you take the warding off, you can track him and he won't know. That way, at least findin' him won't be so damned hard all the time." He fixed Cas with an imploring look. "It'd only be until we've got this under control again. Please."

Castiel nodded and stepped forward, pressing his hand to Sam's chest.

oOo

Blinding white agony shot through him, spreading like fire through his chest. Sam gasped, his eyes flying open but all he could see were stars exploding in his vision. He tried to move away from the source of the pain – a heavy weight pressing against his chest, but something held him down. The fire licked up his ribs, setting them ablaze until an agonised howl was ripped from his throat.

oOo

"I'm sorry, Sammy, I'm sorry," Dean repeated as he held his baby brother still, his hand gripping Sam's bicep while Cas' palm was pressed against his chest. Sam's scream stabbed guilt through Dean, but he knew it had to be done. He had to keep Sam safe – whatever it took. This was the only way he could keep tabs on his brother without Sam finding the evidence of it; a GPS was too easy to find and he _would_ find one once his mind was clearer.

Cas pulled his hand away and Sam slumped, his head relaxing into the pillow. Dean let go of his arm and brushed the stray locks away from his face before picking up the cloth again. It brought back visions of Sam when he was ten and had caught the flu. John had wanted to keep on hunting, but Dean had fought with him and, for one of the first times ever, the eldest Winchester had listened, letting them stay put until Sam was better. John had done research; Dean had been the parent his brother needed. It was a role he had lived and breathed for his whole life and now he just couldn't seem to fix the things that kept going wrong.

Pressing the cloth to Sam's fevered brow, he sighed heavily, wishing it was all just as simple as the flu.

oOo

 **Lebanon, Kansas**

"Ah ha!" Ketch exclaimed triumphantly, taking his eye away from the screen in front of him. Pushing the laptop away, he added one final note to the list in his book, before placing his pen down on the table. He'd been up for the night and the morning without complaint – he'd been undisturbed which was exactly how he liked to work. There had been a few clarifying phone calls with William in London after Markham's hurried call earlier describing Sam's ailment. Ketch, having discovered the use of the ingredients in the water, had set about researching the cure alongside the team at home. Together, it had taken a few hours, but his research had paid off. Picking up the phone, he dialled the number and pressed the phone to his ear.

"Tell me you got somethin'," Dean snapped, his tone sharp. Ketch pursed his lips and huffed through his nose.

"Honestly, Mr Winchester, manners cost nothing, but I understand that this is a stressful time for you, so I'll let it pass," he responded, continuing before Dean could cut it. "As it happens I have. I know you've spoken to Mr Markham again since your conversation with him earlier so you know the purpose of the water. However, I appear to have found the cure and, having doublechecked with my team at home, we're convinced it will work."

"Okay, tell me what I need."

"Lucky for you it all seems to be fairly straight forward ingredients that you should be able to find without much trouble," Ketch explained before rattling off the list. It was long, but basic, including no unusual ingredients with the exception of one. "Your blood will finish it."

"Mine?"

"Yes, Dean. It requires the blood of a familial member to counteract the effect. Once he's taken it, he will be back to normal – his normal that is. You can't loiter, Dean. You'll need to leave him."

"Yeah, yeah. Thanks," Dean replied gruffly.

"You're welcome."

"Listen," Dean cut in just before Ketch was about to hang up. "This doesn't make us even. In fact, not even close. Markham says you're useful, but I don't have a use for people I don't trust. By the time I get back to the bunker, you'd better be gone. Got it?"

"Loud and clear, Mr Winchester," Ketch replied, his tone almost bored before he hung up. The Americans were so overdramatic. Still, there was no current reason for him to hang around in the bunker. He needed to be out there, observing. Dean might not want his help, but Markham's orders outweighed him.

Ketch was not a man to disobey.

oOo

 **Yankton Reservation, Nebraska**

"Cas, we've got it!" Dean called, walking through into the living area. He gave the list to Cas who gave it a cursory look over.

"I'll go and get what we need. It shouldn't take long," he said, pocketing the list.

"Ask Takoda first – he'll know where to find it all," Dean suggested, clapping the angel on the shoulder as he headed towards the door. The hunter returned to the bedroom where Sam hadn't moved. He took his seat again, sitting forwards, his chin resting on the ends of his fingers, elbows on his knees as he fought the exhaustion that tugged at the edges of his eyes. It had been a long day watching Sam shiver, sweat and hurl black goo, unable to keep anything down when he'd regained consciousness enough for them to attempt to give him water. In those fleeting lucid moments, he hadn't been properly conscious at all.

It wasn't getting easier to watch.

oOo

The void finally let go, awareness rising like a bubble, cocooning him in a translucent film that separated him from reality. It was warm and comfortable, even if it was only temporary. Easing his eyes open, he lifted an arm, squeezing his eyes closed again when the light stabbed into his retinas.

"Too bright," he mumbled, his voice cracked but soft.

"Hang on, let me close the curtains," a warm, honeyed voice replied as gentle, calloused fingers pulled his arm down. The light had dimmed, allowing him to open his eyes slowly. Fire still blazed in the back of his eye sockets, but that came from within and he blinked, trying to soothe the sensation. Lowering his arm, he looked up, heartache welling within him as his voice choked out a name.

"Dean."

The worried green, tinged with sadness, lit with a flicker of relief, crinkling around their edges.

"I'm right here, Sammy; it's okay," his brother replied, grasping his hand when Sam's stretched out. He wanted to feel his solidity: to know he was there. God, he wanted Dean to be there. He didn't want to be alone anymore.

 _He's not real._

The voice was his own and it breathed through him like a sigh. There was no malice in it, just quite resignation. The bubble around him shifted, tugging on him gently, coaxing him to fall back into the void, away from the dream, but, for once, Sam didn't want to leave, didn't want the darkness. He wanted to stay in this moment, here, with Dean.

"How you feelin'?" Dean asked, watching his little brother carefully. Sam's eyes were bloodshot and glassy; awareness glowing far off in their depths but it was loose and drifting. He still grasped Dean's wrist, but his hold was weak and easy to pull away from had Dean wanted to. Instead, he lifted his other arm and pressed the back of his hand against Sam's forehead. He was still burning, but Dean wasn't expecting anything less until they got the cure ready.

"Like hell," Sam chuffed a laugh, wincing as the words raked up his throat.

"Alright, take it easy. Here," Dean admonished, grabbing a glass of water and tilting the straw down to his mouth. "Small sips or your upchuck reflex'll kick in again." A smile tried to rise when he saw the slightest roll of Sam's eyes, but it was dragged back by the ache that bloomed inside him. He wanted normalcy; he wanted this to be the end of it all, for Sam to be okay. He wasn't though, no matter how much Dean pretended.

The water was soothing on his parched throat, the cold sliding down through his chest, cooling as it went. Dean pulled it away from him, putting it back on the table next to the bed. Sam let his head fall back onto the pillow, exhausted and riding the lingering nausea, determined not to ruin the dream by having to wake. He wanted these few moments with his brother before his hellish reality kicked back in.

"I miss you," he murmured, fixing grey on green. Dean's mouth lifted at one corner, but his eyes welled.

"I miss you too, Sammy," he replied softly, his heart breaking when he saw the pain line his baby brother's eyes.

"I never meant for this to happen," Sam whispered, his hand still clutching Dean's wrist, like it was his anchor. Dean wanted nothing more than to be that weight to drag him back to his senses.

"I know you didn't. It's not your fault, Sam. None of it is," he answered, brushing a hand over his own stubbled cheeks, fighting to control the lump that threatened to choke him.

"I just…" Sam cleared his throat, feeling his eyes well hot with tears as shame washed through him. "I couldn't do it without you. I tried for so long to be strong, to keep me promise, but I just…couldn't."

"What promise?"

"To not let you down again," he whispered, the tears falling. Dean's heart squeezed as the memory rushed forward. His brother, standing alone and hurting, in the church, tears in his eyes as his face was flushed with fever, almost identical to how he was now.

 _Do you know what I confessed in there? What my greatest sin was? It was how many times I let you down. I can't do that again._

"You never let me down, Sammy. Not then, not now," Dean's voice wavered but it was fierce, protective and made the last vestiges of control that Sam had shattered. A sob bubble out of his throat and he cried openly. Without thinking, Dean moved onto the bed and pulled his brother up into a sitting position, wrapping him in his arms. Sam clung on weakly, his head pressed into the crook of Dean's neck, his tears soaking through his shirt.

Dean mumbled words of comfort to him, but he barely heard them, focusing instead on the tone of his voice, the gentle scent of home, the feeling of relief that rose in waves around him, letting him, for just a moment, forget all the bad that had happened. For just a moment, he let himself believe that it was more than just a dream, that his brother was alive and with him.

Dean felt Sam's arms tighten, just slightly, around him, clinging to him. Tears dripped onto the back of Sam's shirt as he rocked him. He didn't care that he was a man in his thirties; in that moment, he was his little brother who simply needed him. And for the first time in a long time, Dean could do that even though his heart ached knowing that it wouldn't last, knowing that the moment they gave him the remedy for the toxins racing through him, he would have to let go again.

He didn't know if he could.

They sat there in silence, Dean looking up and over Sam's head when he heard the door open and close quietly. Cas' head poked in the door and he nodded once, holding up a bag before retreating from the doorway. Relief and despair churned within Dean at the sight. Finally, Sam's sobs quietened and he pulled his face from Dean's shirt. The older Winchester helped him lie back down against the pillow but stayed on the bed, needing the close proximity. The silence stretched around them like a clear mist, before Sam's voice broke through it.

"I wish none of this had happened. That I hadn't said yes," Sam began, giving a small shake of his head when Dean opened his mouth. "I need to get this out, Dean. Please. What they did to me in London…it was too much. I couldn't see a way out. Toni would've carried on; she wouldn't have let me die. That was what I wanted – to come with you to the Empty. She knew that; I never told her, but she knew. There was no way she was ever gonna let that happen. She told me as much." Sam swallowed, wincing and accepting the water Dean offered him silently before continuing. "So I had to make a choice. I was stupid and selfish, but I just didn't…care. Not anymore.

"I told you – Lucifer you – what I'd done in the barn when I thought I'd got back to the bunker. He made it so real…I didn't think it could be anything but real." Dean wanted nothing more than to shake his brother, to tell him that it _had_ been real. But he couldn't, even as the memory of the pair of them, sat together on the grassy slopes while Sam 'confessed', poured through him.

 _"When…when Lucifer came to that barn, I said that I'd say yes – I'd let him in – if he took it all away. If he made it so that I thought nothing had changed. I want to say that this is all real, but, honestly, I don't know. Maybe I did say yes. Maybe the world is burning because of me."_

Guilt flooded Dean; he should've seen the warning signs back then but he hadn't wanted to believe in them.

"Then I got taken…and I couldn't take it. Not again. Thomas–" Sam swallowed, nausea surging through him again. He fought it back. He needed to get this out. "He didn't tell me – wouldn't – for so long. I don't even know how long. I stayed in that damned cellar, kept on lockdown for god knows how long." The feelings of helplessness, mingled with a faint fleeting feeling of defiance floated through him as he remembered the countless days – weeks – of depravation. "Toni liked to cut and slice. Thomas' methods were…more subtle. Worse."

Dean felt ill just listening, pairing what he'd seen at the farmhouse with what Sam was saying. He couldn't imagine being stuck in that hellhole for weeks, strapped down, waiting for someone to come and save him. Guilt ratcheted tighter up his spine. He should've been there, should've got there sooner.

"It's okay, you couldn't have done anything," Sam replied and Dean realised he'd said the words out loud. "You're dead and, besides, if 'you' had come, it would've been Lucifer. So I'm glad you didn't. I wouldn't…" again he swallowed hard, "I wouldn't want you to see me like that."

"I've seen you hurtin' before Sam," Dean whispered, his eyes downcast.

"I know. But not…grateful." Dean's eyes snapped up and Sam's look was full of shame. "Thomas was trying to help me Dean." The colour drained from his face again and Dean had to be quick to grab the bucket before Sam's body heaved again. Dean rubbed his back with one hand.

"It's alright, buddy, get it out," he soothed, before looking up and to the door. Getting up, he walked quickly across the room, sticking his head through the door to the small living area where Cas was busy pouring a vile looking liquid into a cup. "Cas, what the hell is takin' so long?!"

"It's done, Dean; I was just coming to get you," Cas grumbled, glaring at the older Winchester as he handed him a knife. Taking it, Dean deftly sliced his palm open, not even batting an eyelid as he clenched his hand into a fist and poured the blood into the cup. Cas touched his hand lightly, the cut disappearing in an instant before he gave the mixture a final stir. Dean sniffed it and pulled a face. "Remember what Ketch said – once Sam drinks it, that's it. The fever will break but we're going to have to be gone before he wakes up. Can you do that?"

Dean's heart pounded, but his head nodded automatically before he turned away and walked woodenly back into the bedroom.

Sam had slumped back against the pillow, his face drawn and exhausted. Dean perched back on the edge of the bed, lowering the bucket back onto the floor.

"Sammy? You still with me?" he called softly, checking his temperature with the back of his hand against his forehead again. Sam's eyes cracked open.

"I wish I was," he replied, a sad smile lifting the corners of his mouth briefly. "When I can work out how the hell to get out of this mess, I will. If he hadn't got to Thomas, I could have…"

"Sam, stop," Dean imploded him, noting the way his cheeks became grey. "I need you to stop talkin' about Thomas." He saw the hurt in Sam's eyes rise up, panic creeping in. "I have to tell you somethin' about him and I need you to listen to me carefully. Can you do that?"

Sam nodded warily, his eyes still glassy, but his skin regained some of its colour.

"He lied to you, Sammy and I know you're not gonna believe me even though I really want you to," Dean began, trying to keep the tremor from his voice. "You're sick because he made you sick. That black stuff you keep pukin' up? It's a side effect of a spell he was usin' on you. Every time you think about him or mention him, you feel sick, right?"

Again, Sam nodded, but Dean could see the doubt lining his expression.

"He drugged you, Sammy; he put this nasty-ass shit in your water that made you think he was god's gift – that he was gonna save you. It was a lie and now it's makin' you sick." He swallowed hard, hating that he was causing his little brother more pain. Too many people had manipulated him.

Sam's eyes widened at Dean's words and he wanted to defy him, to say he was wrong. But, gazing up into the green laced with worry, and he knew there was some truth in what was said, a memory rising up.

 _"Please," Sam was horrified to hear the pleading in his own tone. "Don't leave me here alone."_

 _"I have to, Sam," Thomas murmured, brushing Sam's hair from his forehead. "I'll only be a couple of hours and then I'll be right back with you, alright?"_

 _"Please," Sam tried again, hating himself even as he did so. He couldn't seem to stop himself._

He had begun to feel a constant undercurrent of anxiety whenever Thomas left him – it had been a strange feeling, one that he hadn't felt before.

 _Dean's right and you know it._

The protesting voice was small and weak, but laced with nausea.

"I'm gonna give you something that's gonna make you better, okay, Sammy?" Dean's voice snapped him back into the present. If a dream could have a present. "It's gonna taste really gross and you're gonna go to sleep for a while but it'll make you better, I promise."

He held up the cup, letting Sam see it, simply holding it. The last thing he wanted to do was force it on his brother. Sam needed to have choices, to have control. The sad grey eyes drifted up to look at him, still glassy, still out of it, but there was trust there, just like always. Sam might think he was dead, but that didn't matter to him, not right now.

"Okay," Sam whispered and Dean helped him sit up a bit, raising the glass, with its thick, gloopy liquid, up to his mouth. Sam began to drink, his face screwing up, his eyes closing as he choked down the revolting substance.

"Take it easy, it's alright," Dean coaxed, grimacing as Sam's eyes watered. How he didn't throw it back up was a miracle in itself, but soon the glass was empty and Dean helped him lie back down again. They sat in comfortable silence as Sam's eyelids eventually began to droop.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, Sammy?"

"I wish you were gonna be here when I wake up," Sam answered, his eyes closing as his breathing began to even out. He didn't see the tears well, didn't feel them fall onto his hand. He didn't hear his brother's choked reply.

"Me too, Sammy. Me too."

oOo

 **Please review!**


	7. Wants, Needs, Wishes

**Yet another apology for the lateness…I was camping. So I got loads written, but had to handwrite and then type it which took forever. Apologies!**

 **I'm also dedicating this to MJ Elsworth who is about to start a whole new chapter in her life with her family. I wish her all the best, but I'm also sad that I've lost her as my brainstorming buddy for this: this trilogy wouldn't have existed without her. In the similar vein as our beloved Sam, one day, when you find your way back, I hope this might be a guide. Thank you, MJ, for all you've done.**

oOo

 _"Send out the hounds, send out the guards,_

 _Never be found, better than bars,_

 _Damn it, he's a fast one."_

 _\- For the River, Nickelback_

oOo

 **NE-14 North, Outskirts of Verdigre, Nebraska**

 _"He lied to you, Sammy and I know you're not gonna believe me even though I really want you to."_

The dream lingered, wrapping around him, soothing him. It may have been a dream, but it had been the most comfort Sam had felt in…forever. As his mind eased back into the waking world, he finally didn't mind. It didn't hurt; nothing ached. He felt…normal. Physically, at least. The heat, the ache in his shoulder, the burning behind his eyes, were all gone.

Opening his eyes, Sam stared up at the ceiling, focusing on the grey fuzzy carpet that stretched just above him. Blinking, he looked to the left, at the raindrops patting against the windshield, trickling down in lazy rivulets. His feet were pressed up against the passenger door, his knees bent up. Groaning, he sat up, running his left hand back through his hair. He paused, pulling his hand away from his hair, brow furrowing. Rotating his arm, Sam lifted his other arm up to his left shoulder and felt for where the gunshot should have been. Nothing hurt.

"Crap," he murmured, spinning around wildly, looking in all directions. He was exactly where he'd stopped when he'd thrown up. Rain splattered against the metal of the Dodge, cloaking the outside in a dismal sheen that left the air cool. Sam's hand moved to his other shoulder, his fingers probing beneath his shirt, breathing a sigh of relief when he felt the raised skin. They couldn't get in his head. He couldn't be tracked.

But…what the hell?

Someone had healed him and that didn't make sense. No: that was a lie. Lucifer was messing with him, showing he could get close, close enough to heal him, to do something _nice_ to him. It wasn't nice; it wasn't comforting. It turned his stomach. And infused his panic with anger. It wasn't _fair_. He didn't want this. Sliding himself up, he checked the backseat, paranoid.

 _Yeah, because the Devil is really gonna be lurking in the back._

The old hunter in him scoffed at his timidity. He wished that part was stronger, but it was a faint whisper compared to his fear. Leaning forward, Sam rested his hands on the steering wheel and his head on his hands, breathing out a heavy sigh.

He wished he could go back to sleep again. Not for the darkness, but for the warm comfort that had wrapped around him.

Dean...

The memory of the dream, of his brother taking care of him, lingered around the vestiges of his mind. Sam wanted nothing more than for it to have been real. Lucifer could never have recreated _that_ Dean. The way he'd felt, the safety, the comfort, couldn't be faked. The loneliness floored him, sucking his breath out of his lungs, surging over the dear like a tsunami.

He didn't want to be alone anymore. Yet there was no one left for him. The thought made him want to curl up on the seat and sob. But he wouldn't – not this time. Instead, he fought for control, sucking in each breath until the waves simmered down to a manageable level.

"C'mon, think," he mumbled, trying to centre his thoughts enough to formulate a plan. What he had been doing wasn't working. He'd been found twice in two days. Lucifer was toying with him and he wouldn't stop until eventually he got bored. When that happened…

Sam's eyes snapped open. He wouldn't wait for that to happen; he had to find somewhere safe. Then he could try to finish what Thomas had started.

Turning the ignition, he set his sights forward, pulling out onto the road, missing the glint of metal half a mile behind him, cloaked by the rain.

oOo

 **Lebanon, Kansas**

The door groaned as Dean pushed it open wearily, his shoulders sagging heavily. The drive back had been long and silent, his gut yelling at him the whole way. They'd driven Sam back to the road where they'd found him, hoping that waking up in 'familiar' settings would cause less distress for the youngest Winchester when he woke up, and they'd left before he did. Dean had no idea if that had worked. All he knew was that Sam needed him and he'd left.

He did want to – hell he would've done anything to stay. But that wasn't what Sam really needed and he had to keep telling himself that. The feeling itself was foreign; his little brother _always_ needed him. Dean knew deep down that that hadn't changed and his leaving was only temporary but that didn't ease the guilt.

"Dean, he'll be fine," Cas had offered unconvincingly. He hadn't even tried to sound like he meant it. Each time, Dean had nodded mutely but he didn't believe it. He couldn't.

The door's groan echoed through the empty bunker and the loneliness settled in, suffocating him. It banged shut behind Cas; Dean's shoulders dropping further at its finality.

"Where is he?" the hunter asked as he threw his phone down on the library table.

"The same road he was on five minutes ago," Cas replied, his tone patient despite the abruptness of his words. Dean nodded. The need to sleep warred with the urge to drown himself in a bottle of whiskey. Wordlessly, he walked off through to his bedroom, leaving the angel alone in the library.

oOo

 **Minneapolis, Minnesota**

Mickey's Diner was quiet for a midmorning, but it was just the sort of place Griffin Andrews enjoyed: good coffee, enough privacy for him to conduct business and the waitresses were always easy on the eye. It was a regular stop for him whenever his work took him close to the city. The broad-shouldered man sat in one of the booths, almost filling the bench with a frame of solid muscle that had been cultivated in his military days. Those were long gone, but his current employment – and his pride – kept him in shape. He wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin, having just finished a leisurely breakfast when he felt the phone in his right jeans pocket vibrate. The left one had stayed silent. Pulling it out, he checked the caller ID but didn't recognise it. He pressed accept and put it to his ear, a smooth voice greeting him.

"Mr Andrews, I presume?" The voice was precise, clipped and formal. Griffin Andrews frowned, his cold brown eyes narrowing as he swirled the coffee he'd been nursing in slow circles.

"This isn't a listed number. How did you get it?" he snapped.

"That isn't important. I require your services; can I assume you're available to hire?" the voice at the other end remained unfazed.

"That depends on what you're after," he replied cagily; Griff was not one to reveal much of anything if he didn't want to; if this man wanted him, he already knew what services he offered.

"I would prefer to meet if possible and explain the job to you in person," the caller explained, "how close are you to Sioux Falls?"

Griff looked at his watch, cocking his head to the side. "About five hours' drive, less if this conversation is worth it."

"I'll make it triple your usual, just for the inconvenience." A broad grin revealed a set of perfectly white teeth.

"Text me the address; I'll be there," he finished, ending the call and downing his coffee.

Seems the day was looking up already.

oOo

 **Lebanon, Kansas**

The deep, uncomfortable growl of his stomach woke Dean, bellowing at him with its insistence. Grumbling back incoherently, he rolled up to a sitting position and ran a hand through his hair, grimacing at the way it felt. He couldn't remember the last time he'd showered properly.

Lurching up, he shoved down the memories of Sam berating his for his lack of hygiene on some hunts as he lumbered into the bunker's vast shower room. Starting the water, he stripped off his shirts and jeans and kicked off his boots which he'd been too exhausted to take off before he slept. The hunter stepped under the boiling stream, groaning as it hit the tense muscles bunched together in his shoulders. Leaning forwards, he pressed his hands flat against the cold tiles on the wall and bowed his head, letting the water loosen the knots in his back. A small voice in the back of his mind told him that he needed to take better care of himself. Dean huffed a mirthless chuckle into the steam. Maybe when he was dead – properly this time.

Dean spent longer in the shower than he usually would have, knowing there was little waiting for him afterwards. He felt useless and it wasn't a feeling he was used to or welcomed. There was one thing he knew he needed to do and he knew he was putting it off. Scrubbing at his damp hair with a towel, the hunter walked back to his room and grabbed the first clothes that came to hand from his wardrobe. He threw the towel on a chair and meandered into the kitchen, surprised to find Cas already there, hovering over the coffee pot.

"I heard you get up," the angel stated simply, filling the mug that Dean held out.

"Thanks," he murmured into it, wincing when the coffee burned his tongue, but drank it anyway. Cas frowned. "Anythin'?" Cas followed him to the metal bench that took up one side of the kitchen.

"He's headed up the I-90 towards Rapid City," he replied sitting opposite where Dean had placed his mug, watching as the hunter raided the cupboards having found the fridge bare. He came back with a packet of beef jerky in his hand and one sticking out his mouth. "I was thinking…"

"About what?" Dean asked around his mouthful. Cas shifted uncomfortably and Dean stopped chewing, his eyes narrowing.

"Sam obviously believes that you're possessed by Lucifer and that everyone – and everything – is hell bent on getting to him," Cas started, holding up a hand when Dean made to interrupt. "What if we could find a way to convince him of the truth?"

"Where are you goin' with this, Cas?" Dean asked sceptically, his frown deepening.

"If we could get Lucifer –"

"No!" Dean barked, glaring fire at the angel. "No way. I know what you're thinkin' and the answer is hell no."

"Dean, be reasonable. If we can find Lucifer – and that's a big 'if' in itself – we could somehow use him to convince Sam that everything is in his head."

Dean laughed, the sound harsh and full of anger.

"Yeah, right. Let's just up go to _Lucifer_ – king of all evil – and convince him to be nice to my whackjob brother," he sneered, his voice taking on a mocking tone, " _hey Luci, I know we've not exactly been best buddies but would you mind tellin' Sam that everythin's real and do it with no strings? Gee, thanks._ Hell, Cas, this is the WORST plan you've ever had!"

"And it's the only one we've got!" Cas shot back, steel in his voice. "Yes, it's dangerous and we need to work it out properly before even getting anywhere near Sam, but I can't see what else will convince him. It's not like _you_ can."

Dean fell silent at the rebuke, his anger simmering as he snapped the piece of jerky that he had been twizzling in his fingers. It was a terrible plan. The worst.

"Let's say we _could_ find some way of usin' Lucifer, how the hell are we meant to find him?" he asked, hating himself immediately. He shouldn't even be considering it. They were asking for trouble. There was no way Lucifer would get close enough to Sam to hurt him; Dean would make damned sure of that. Cas' look turned pensive.

"Our best bet is to use Heaven's resources. They will have been trying to locate him in his new vessel. He wouldn't have been able to jump back into Vince Vincente after burning through Toni Bevell. Vince had completely disintegrated. I can try to see if Heaven will let me work with them."

They sat in silence, only the soft hum of the lights interfering with the quiet, while Dean mulled over Cas' suggestion.

"Do it." His reply was soft and heavy, more of an exhale than a formed word as though he had to breathe it out or he'd never manage to say it.

"If I do go, I don't know how long I'll be for." Cas' words were weighted and Dean knew exactly what he meant. He fiddled with the handle on his mug, his hunger forgotten.

"The gateway is a few hours from here," he said thoughtfully, "so you could get and hang around until Sam stops somewhere – if you need to." Dean looked at his watch. "He won't drive for much longer – he'll be lookin' for somewhere to crash. That'd give you a few hours before he moves on again."

"I can keep track of him from Heaven as it is. If I think something isn't right, I can come back immediately and call you," Cas clarified. Dean's jaw clenched.

"If _anything_ seems off, I need you to call me. Sam is more important than findin' Lucifer and I'm gonna need time to get to him if I have to."

"You have my word, Dean," the angel swore solemnly. "Perhaps, while I'm gone, you could start looking through the archives for a better way of containing Lucifer than the last time."

"I'll get on it," Dean answered, dread filling the pit of his stomach at the thought of the task he'd been putting off. He needed to do it before any research. He looked up as Cas rose, determination alight in his eyes.

"I'll call when I get there," he stated, turning towards the door.

"Cas." He stopped at Dean's call, turning back to meet green eyes that warred with conflicting emotions. He saw the hunter swallow. "Thanks. I know this ain't been easy on any of us so…thanks."

Cas gave him a sad smile and nodded. "You know I'm here." Without waiting for a reply, he left, leaving Dean nursing his coffee.

The hunter remained there, staring at the wall blankly, his hands wrapped around the mug which grew cooler as the minutes passed. He needed to get up and go to the library but he didn't want to face what was waiting for him. Time stood still, nudging him constantly, until, finaly, he pushed himself up and trudged back down the corridor.

Walking to one of the small cabinets nestled on the left, Dean opened it and grabbed the small black dictaphone that Ketch had left. He didn't want to hear what was on it but he needed to.

Want and need seemed to come up a lot lately.

Pulling up his usual chair at the long table, he set the recorder down and stared at it for a long moment. Hesitantly, Dean reached out a hand. It hovered over the dictaphone. He knew it was cued up to play from when he'd last listened to it. When he'd heard his little brother call him Lucifer.

He held his breath and pressed play.

Ketch's voice drifted out of the speaker, surprisingly soothing. He'd forgotten the nauseating tone the English used to coax out the information he wanted; it was a huge contrast to the usually cold, emotionless voice that he had.

 _"Tell me about Thomas, Sam."_

 _"Thomas was trying to save me."_ Sam sounded flat, almost despondent and it sent a ripple of unease down Dean's spine.

 _"If none of this is 'real', how could he do that?"_

 _"Anna is – was – a psychic. She would project herself and Thomas into my subconscious. That's why I was alone so much – they couldn't risk staying for so long, not without Lucifer realising what they were doing."_ Sam's reply was the longest so far; as if the drug Ketch had given him had fully taken hold. It probably had. His tone remained emotionless. Dean's fist clenched at the lies his brother had been fed; Anna hadn't been psychic. Markham had confirmed that she was nothing more than Toni's head of house.

 _"What about later – when you were supposed to kill Lucifer?"_ Ketch didn't make any hints that he didn't believe Sam; he had complete faith in his narcotic. Dean shivered and wished, yet again, that he'd woken earlier and put a stop to it. Ketch should never have had the chance to go for Sam. That's what Dean got for trusting strangers.

 _"Thomas said that was a necessary risk. They weren't afraid of me running then. At least, Thomas wasn't."_

 _"And what about Anna?"_ Silence followed Ketch's question and Dean could picture clearly Sam's expression: the drug-cloud looked in his eyes which would have darkened thoughtfully under a crinkled brow.

 _"I don't know…I…"_

 _"Don't fight it, Sam; just say what comes to mind, there's a good lad."_

 _"Sometimes she would give me these looks and I'd get the feeling that she didn't want to help. That I was in the way."_ There was another weighted silence.

 _"That's not all, is it, Sam?"_ Dean's gut clenched; he didn't like where this was going. He knew how good Sam's intuition was, particularly when it came to people. It was what gave him the edge in hunting.

 _"She'd do things when Thomas wasn't looking or without him knowing."_

There was a rustle of clothing in the silence that followed which matched Dean's as he shifted uneasily.

 _"Such as? It's alright, Sam; you can tell me."_ God, Dean hated Ketch's calming tone. It was the vocal version of the wolf dressed in sheep's clothing, giving the impression that he wanted to help but, in reality, he was causing more pain. Maybe not in that moment, but dredging up memories wasn't going to help Sam.

 _"On the night Lucifer came looking for us –"_

 _"How do you know he was?"_

 _"The weather – there was a tornado –"_ Dean's hand shot out and he paused the dictaphone, the movement quick like the recorder had burned him. He remembered that night; he'd been holed up in a motel in Carlyle, lying in the bathtub with Jody, waiting out the storm for the whole night. Despite the physical threat and his constant worries, Jody had been there to comfort him, helping him get through it. The thought that Sam could've been stuck with his captors throughout that night had plagued him then: to hear it admitted…

The hunter lurched up and grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the drinks cabinet, necking a mouthful as he stepped back over to the table. He was going to need it for the rest of this. How was he supposed to deal with the idea of Sammy being stuck, afraid, tormented and alone with two psychos? Sam was strong; a year ago he would've rode it out, survived it, but that was a year ago. Dean had seen what they'd done to his brother in England; he could barely begin to fathom what Sam's state of mind had been like by the time the tornado had hit. Taking another gulp, Dean held the burning liquid on his tongue, pursing his lips before he pressed play again, letting his fears solidify.

 _"–Which Thomas said was created by Lucifer. He was trying to flush us out,"_ Sam explained, agitation creeping into his voice. _"That was the night I…when Anna…"_

 _"When you what, Sam?"_

 _"When I found out that Dean is dead – in the real world, not this one."_ Sam's reply was a pained whisper that broke Dean's heart. It was the first display of emotion he'd heard on the recording from his brother. It was the one thing that had completely broken Sam and Dean felt his own self-loathing bubble up. _He_ was the cause of that moment of suffering. _"That was when I realised this was all truly fake. I hadn't seen it before. I didn't want to."_

 _And what did Anna do?"_ Dean took another swig from the bottle. He'd almost forgotten the point of Ketch's line of questioning and his dread grew.

 _"I was…upset so Thomas wanted to sedate me. He thought he had but Anna used a paralytic instead. I knew everything and couldn't do anything but lie there. She wanted me to suffer."_ He was going to be sick, white hot rage bursting through him. He knew the kind of agony Sam would have gone through at the thought of his brother's death – he'd felt it enough times himself and the realisation that Anna had deliberately made Sam's suffering worse…

It was a good thing the bitch was dead.

Dean's hand tightened around the bottle once more as he pressed play one last time.

 _"I never told Thomas. He wouldn't have believed me."_

 _"What the hell is goin' on?!"_ Dean heard his own voice roar in the background. He switched off the recorder and frowned thoughtfully. Sam hadn't fully trusted Thomas; if he had, he would've told him about Anna. Dean stored the thought away; it would have some use later. He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, feeling the taut muscles. So much for the shower. He hated that the information Ketch had got was useful. Sam would've told him in his own time.

 _And how far gone would he have been by that point?_

Scowling, he shoved that voice back. There was no way he was going to be grateful to Ketch for what he'd done. He checked his phone before turning his full attention to Johnny Walker. It was time to see to urge number two.

oOo

 **Muncie, Indiana**

The drive to the playground was uneventful and frustrating. Castiel knew that what he was doing would help, but driving was so…inane. Yet again, he found himself wishing he had his wings back amongst all his other gifts. They were certainly more useful that being able to visualise the exact atomical breakdown of honey into its separate components. Wishing was becoming an irritating habit for the angel who had spent many millennia wishing for nothing and yet now it was a regular occurrence.

Pulling up on the road beside the park, it stood deserted in the darkness although Cas knew the gatekeepers, Asariel and Purah, wouldn't be far off. He focused his attention once again on Sam, who had changed direction after a prolonged stop – probably to 'crash' as Dean had put it – and, while the change was unusual, the angel knew that few things were 'usual' with Sam at the moment. When Dean answered the phone, he sounded groggy, his speech slurred.

"Dean, are you alright?" Cas asked, frowning.

"I'm fine. Where's Sam?" Dean grumbled, his words lacing together.

"Headed back down the I-90. He stopped for an hour or so in Long Valley but he's backtracking now," he explained. "I'll keep an eye on him."

"Good. Y'do that."

"Get some sleep, Dean," he chastised.

"Yeah, yeah. Bye _Mom_." The phone clicked dead and Cas rolled his eyes at Dean's sarcasm. He slipped his phone back into his pocket and climbed out of the car, walking over to where his sisters had materialised, sitting on the play equipment behind the sandpit. Both still maintained their original vessels: Asariel as a young woman and Purah as a girl. Both were stone-faced as he approached.

"Castiel," Asariel said by way of greeting as she stood. Cas nodded to the pair of them as he stopped beside the portal, his hands in his pockets.

"I need access to Heaven immediately," he stated without preamble. Purah snorted, a glare marring her forehead, but Asariel placed a hand on her shoulder.

"For what reason?" she asked.

"I want to help find Lucifer. I've been attempting to track him, but my resources are…limited. Together, I feel we all have a better chance of finding him." Technically, he wasn't lying; he was only bending the truth mildly. Again, Purah sneered.

"What makes you think they haven't already found him?" she scoffed. Castiel turned his gaze on her.

"We'd all know if they had," he replied without the malice she'd demonstrated. The smaller angel fell silent; if they had located Lucifer, word would have spread through angel radio. There would've been no blocking it.

"Alright," Asariel murmured quietly; it wasn't their place to refuse him. If he wasn't welcome, those on the other side would deal with him. Turning to the sandpit, she chanted the incantation, the Enochian rolling like liquid from her tongue, making the sigil glow bright in the black before the sand swirled up lazily at first in a slow vortex, before gaining speed. Castiel nodded his thanks as he stepped into the light.

oOo

 **Lebanon, Kansas**

The empty bottle of whiskey sat on the library table, the screw cap left haphazardly beside it. On the right, the drinks cabinet stood open and empty, much to Dean's chagrin when he'd gone looking for more. Stumbling down the corridor, he leaned with one hand splayed against the wall as the floor bucked and heaved below him. There had better be beer left in the fridge; even in his drunk state, he knew he wouldn't be able to drive out to get more. He wouldn't risk Baby. He stopped momentarily, blinking slowly as he waited for his vision to stop swaying. As much. A muted thump made him turn his head, frowning blearily. He waited, listening, but heard nothing more. Stupid pipes were always banging and knocking.

Staggering on, Dean nearly slipped down the stairs into the kitchen, righting himself at the last moment. Grumbling to himself, he yanked the fridge door open.

"Aha! C'here, sweetheart," he exclaimed triumphantly, grabbing the last bottle and kicking the door shut as he turned. He unscrewed the cap and threw it towards the bin, missing it by a foot. He shrugged and took a mouthful, heading back up the stairs.

Dean's drunk gaze barely registered the dark shape to his right before an arm snaked around his neck and squeezed hard. The beer bottle fell and smashed across the floor as Dean reached up to grab his assailant, his reflexes kicking in automatically. But, hard as he fought, the alcohol sparking through his system made him sluggish and slow while his attacker was sober and strong. Stronger than Dean expected; he hung on even when Dean rammed him back against the wall and they slipped and skidded across the beer-slick floor. Black spots exploded across his vision as the arm tightened and he struggled to breathe. He grappled and tried to pry the arm away from his pressure point. It clung on.

Slowly, Dean sank down, the assailant moving with him, losing himself to oblivion.

oOo

 **The portal to Heaven has never been given a specified location so I had to improvise. The two angels are from S9.**

 **Please review!**


	8. Round and Round We Go

**Thank you to everyone who has been reviewing, reading, following and favouriting!**

oOo

 _"Tidal wave in motion, you can't hide from the explosion in 3, 2, 1…"_

 _\- Coin for the Ferryman, Nickelback_

oOo

"…Drunk…I couldn't…no…it's fine…"

The words were broken, intermittent, confusing. His head hurt, throbbing and pulsing, like his brain was being thrown against the back of his eyes and pounding the inside of his skull relentlessly. He moaned, squeezing his eyes tight and tried to stretch out, but his arms didn't cooperate and his feet hit something hard. God, how drunk was he? It took a lot for him to black out…did he get into his own bed? Did Sam get him there?

"Hang on." A foreign rumbling sound that was out of place in the bunker lowered to a grumble and he was jostled uncomfortably. Dean turned his head, trying to bury his face in the soft cushioning he was lying on. The bumping stopped but the rumbling sound didn't. He was way more drunk than he thought. Sam would give him hell when he got up.

 _Sam._

Reality slowly crashed in like a wave, rushing over him as he heard the squeak and groan of someone shifting on a leather seat. He wasn't in bed; he was lying on a backseat of a car. He yelped when a hand grabbed his hair, yanking his head up and something hard clattered against his teeth. Cool liquid poured into his mouth, half dribbling down his chin. Dean reeled back, but the hand in his hair held fast. His eyes snapped open but he saw nothing, panicking at the darkness before he became aware of the tightness around his eyes.

"It's just water. Drink," the voice snarled at him, squeezing the bottle so that Dean had no option but to obey or choke.

Eventually, it was ripped away from him and his head dropped. He rolled onto his back, realising that his arms were stuck beneath him. Squirming, he felt hard plastic bite into his wrists. He felt the same snaring sensation around his ankles and knees over his jeans. Groaning, he shifted and pulled, testing his predicament.

"Settled down," his captor barked as the car lurched back onto the road.

"Who the hell are you?!" Dean growled, ignoring his statement, twisting his wrists and shifting on the seat. He felt awful; the alcohol was still swimming through his system and the car's movement wasn't doing him any favours, despite the water having eased the banging in his head.

"I'm gonna say it one last time. Settle down and shut up. You won't like the alternative." Dean stilled momentarily, knowing he wasn't in a position to argue. The man spoke with an American accent but Dean couldn't place it. There was a hard edge to it that rang with authority.

Who the hell was he?

"I'll get back to you on that later," he spoke again, ending the call with whoever he was talking to. Dean frowned, trying to logically run through likely suspects. Granted, the Winchesters had a lot of enemies, but few, if any knew where the bunker was, let alone how to get into it.

"Are you a hunter?"

No reply.

Dean ground his teeth, racking his brain again. There was no reason a hunter would grab him. The only other people who knew about the bunker were friends…or Lucifer. Crowley. Ketch. Ketch had no reason to grab him either and it seemed a little underhanded, even for the King of Hell. Lucifer wouldn't send a minion; it wasn't his style.

"Who sent you?" he tried again, feeling the car slow, pushing him forwards slightly on the seat.

"How you feeling?" the man asked, his tone unsympathetic.

"Freakin' fantastic," Dean growled, his anger rising. "Answer the damned question!"

Yet again, he was met with no answer and the frustration – and panic – broke the dam in him. He opened his mouth to yell a stream of obscenities, but let out a surprised grunt instead when a damp cloth was shoved against his mouth and nose. He inhaled once, jerking back from the cloying scent that the cloth was soaked in, but the hand moved with him until his head was jammed between the seat and the backrest with nowhere to go. Struggling, Dean tried to hold his breath, but coughed when the man hit him in the stomach, making him gasp. Slowly, his writhing softened, the darkness pulling at him until he knew nothing.

oOo

 **Lennox, South Dakota**

Ketch pressed end on the call, staring thoughtfully through the grimy window. Finding the small warehouse hadn't been difficult and hooking up the electrical system was easy. It wasn't completely soundproof, but it would do. It was secure enough for what he needed. When Griffin got back, he would be able to leave. He checked his watch: 2.08am. Jody wouldn't expect him to call until 7am; as far as she was concerned, he was sleeping in his hotel room at the Hilton.

As alibis went, she would be airtight. She would vouch for him because he _would_ be working with her. They still had plenty of other research to do and he'd been very clear with Griffin on his task. The mercenary was ruthless, pathological, but he wasn't cruel. He knew what he needed to do and wouldn't take enjoyment in it. This wasn't going to be an easy process but it was for Sam's benefit; it would help him more than anything else they could try. It was a shame that Dean wouldn't see it that way. He was too attached; he couldn't separate himself enough to do this.

Luckily, Ketch could.

He turned his attention back to the room displayed on the left-hand side of his laptop screen, to the unconscious form slumped in the middle of the floor. Sam had been so skittish, grabbing him hadn't been easy, subduing him had been harder still. What made it more difficult still was that Ketch couldn't get involved; he had had to hang back, out of sight. He couldn't be seen by Sam. Luckily, Griffin Andrews appeared to be more useful than promised. At a little over six foot six, it was a clash between giants and Sam was nowhere near the top of his game. His fear gave him strength, but at the expense of accuracy and agility.

Now Ketch just needed to wait.

oOo

 **I-29 North, South Dakota**

It was definitely one of the…strangest commissions Griff had ever been asked to work on. Hell, he was whatever the person who hired him wanted him to be: detective, surveillance, murderer. He wasn't quite sure what he was this time. Abductor, obviously, but as for the next part, the mercenary wasn't really sure. Not that it bothered him; he would get paid and that was it. Nothing else mattered.

Griff made a point with every client to outline everything they had specified and check that it was exactly what they wanted. There were no refunds in his business. What this client wanted was extreme – perhaps more extreme that Griff had been used to in recent years – but he didn't even bat an eyelash when Griff asked him if he definitely wanted this.

"It's not about _want_ , Mr Andrews; this is a case of need. The work you will undertake will, eventually, change this young man's life."

The mercenary couldn't quite see how, but, from what he could gather, the primary target had been through hell and had been conditioned to the extreme. Part of it was a severe case of Stockholm syndrome which needed to be rectified. He didn't need to know more than the details the aloof Mr Ketch had provided and those that he had had been enough.

Grabbing the brother had been both easier and more difficult than anticipated. He'd been warned that Dean Winchester was a trained fighter: ruthless and lethal. That, Griff had no issue with and had been prepared for. What he hadn't expected was the man's drunken state. It made overpowering him easy, but the mercenary couldn't use the sedative he'd originally planned to use to keep him under for the whole trip. The risk of it reacting with the alcohol was too great. Ketch hadn't been happy but there wasn't a lot Griff could do about it.

When he had come round, Dean had been exactly what he'd expected: angry, defiant and stubborn. Luckily, he'd kept the chloroform on hand; it was a safer option and Dean appeared to have slept off most of the booze's effects. He'd slept the rest of the journey with only a couple of top ups.

Loose gravel crunched beneath his Explorer's tyres as the mercenary pulled up outside the abandoned warehouse. It was off the beaten track, lost amongst a sea of trees far from prying eyes. The door opened as he climbed out, Ketch standing and waiting, but he made no move towards the car. Griff nodded to him curtly, not expecting him to; they'd already agreed to keep him out of all interactions with both Winchesters. The less the elder Winchester knew, the better. Griff reached into the lower pocket on his cargo pants, pulling out two cloths. Opening the rear door, he looked down at the slowly stirring man lying across the seats. Promptly, Griff shoved one of the cloths into Dean's mouth, using the other to secure it in place.

"Rise and shine, bucko," he called, slapping the hunter's cheek non-too gently. Dean's response was garbled and he jerked his head to the side. Since he was wearing a blindfold, Griffin took that as a sign that most of the drug had worn off.

"Out y'get," he remarked as he gripped the younger man under his armpits and dragged him bodily from the car, pulling him onto his feet, a simple enough task since he stood a good five inches over the hunter. Dean moaned and tried to wrench away, almost toppling over as he did. "Alright, hang on," Griff muttered, snapping open a retractable blade and reaching down to sever the ties around Dean's ankles and knees. He started counting to three in his head and got to two when Dean's booted foot lashed out, trying to hook blindly around his own leg and trip him. Instead, Griff sidestepped with ease, kicking the Winchester in the backs of his legs, sending him crashing to his knees with a muffled grunt.

"Don't make this difficult, boy. That was your free shot; you ain't gonna get another," he threatened, cuffing Dean around the back of his head with his left hand, eliciting a growl from the hunter. He paused a moment, his hands gripping Dean's biceps hard, watching to see if Dean made another move. He didn't. Hauling him up, Griffin pushed him forward, guiding the blind man over the rough terrain towards the warehouse door. Ketch had disappeared inside, probably into one of the side rooms. He was to stay out of sight until the whole thing was over. Neither Winchester could know he was there or involved at all.

Dean breathed heavily through his nose, stumbling forwards, still woozy from the drug as he was manhandled forwards. He grunted when his foot caught a step and he nearly fell forwards, but the hands gripping his arms held him upright. Judging from the size of the grip, the man propelling him forward was huge and, groggy and bound as he was, Dean knew he didn't have a chance.

The floor beneath them changed, the crunch of gravel morphing to the thud of their boots against concrete. Cooler air brushed his forehead: they were inside. He nearly toppled again when he was yanked to the right and marched forward. Abruptly, he was turned again and hauled to a stop.

"Sit." He hesitated; if he did, the chances of escape when down further. A smack to the back of his knees buckled him and Dean landed heavily on a wooden chair with a muffled groan.

Griff rolled his eyes at the Winchester, reaching down to grab the handcuffs attached to chains anchored into the floor behind the chair. He threaded them up through the gap in the back of the chair and snapped them onto Dean's wrists below the plastic cuffs, leaving them on as well. It wasn't going to hurt to be prepared. The younger man shifted, testing his arms, finding the chain was too short for him to move far. Moving around him, Griff grabbed his left foot and yanked it next to the chair leg, securing a metal latch over his jeans and padlocking it in place. At first, he'd thought Ketch's requirements to have restraints attached to the chair, which was bolted to the floor, were extreme, but, having met Dean Winchester, he now saw the necessity. If Ketch was right, when the blindfold came off, they were going to be more than necessary. Moving around, he did the same with Dean's right leg and then buckled short leather straps around both of his biceps and the back of the chair.

Dean felt another band circle around his upper arm, heard the snap of the strap being buckled and knew he was screwed. The chair didn't move when he struggled – it didn't even scrape on the floor – and he knew it was held down. His heart thumped hard in his chest, the last vestiges of the drug gone. Suddenly a hand was under him and he growled his indignation when it reached into all four pockets of his jeans, searching for anything he could use to try and free himself.

Finally, he felt the knot of the blindfold being loosened and he jerked his head, slipping off the material and screwing his eyes shut instantly when the light blinded him. A door slammed shut behind him. Swivelling his head, Dean blinked, growing accustomed to the light, staring around the room.

He was alone in what might have been an office once, its walls dark with mildew, the floor swept but still dirty. There was one door – behind him and to his left – but the strangest part was in front of him. Mounted in the centre of the grimy wall was a brand-new television which was at least forty inches across.

 _What the hell?_

Looking down, the hunter gave an experimental tug, the straps around his arms biting into him. At least he had his shirt on so it wasn't digging into his skin. None of it made any sense at all; he didn't see why he was there. The lights snapped off and the TV fired up.

Staring at the screen, Dean knew exactly why he was there.

oOo

 _It couldn't be happening. Not again. Please, God, not again._

Sam fought to keep his breathing steady but he was failing miserably. His chest burned with each shallow inhale, the tautness in his chest not letting him take a deep one. Twisting, he tried to find some slack in the leather cuffs holding his arms high above his head, but he found none. It was a futile move that he'd been testing for who knew how long; his feet were barely on the floor, metal shackles keeping his legs anchored to it. He'd woken up in that position, his shoulders screaming at having to carry his weight. A tight blindfold kept him in the dark. That's when the panic had set in, when the memory of being taken – again – flashed in broken images in the blackness.

Being in the motel room – coming out of the bathroom – getting taken down by a man who towered over him – fighting – losing – being dragged out to a car – a sharp scratch in his arm before nothing…

It dredged up the older memories: the ones of Thomas. As he'd struggled and fought, the flashbacks took over, incapacitating him further.

 _Thomas caught a hold of Sam's wrist again, twisting his arm back viciously and yanking it behind his back. His foot connected with the back of Sam's knees, dropping him to the floor, bending him forwards over the edge of the bed. The Englishman straddled him, pressing his torso down into the mattress, catching his other wrist and holding it against his back like the other one._

 _"Let go of me!" Sam roared, struggling desperately._

 _"Shush, it's alright, Sam. Calm down. It'll be alright," Thomas soothed._

Back then, he'd had some fight. The images changed, shifted forwards.

 _He lay in the back of the car, unable to move, glaring up at the rear-view mirror as the driver's door opened and Thomas slid in. Bucking, Sam writhed and strained, fighting against the heavy restraints, sweat beading on his forehead under the effort. Nothing loosened. His glare was venomous as Thomas locked gazes with him in the mirror. The Englishman's eyes crinkled around the edges sympathetically as Sam bellowed at him incoherently._

 _"Oh, Sam, I realise you're not comfortable, and we've got a long road ahead of us, but trust me: I'm working in your best interests. I promise."_

Back then, he'd been defiant. How long had it been since he'd felt that? Like he had the choice to feel defiant? He'd been stripped of it.

 _Best interests._ Hell, Sam didn't know what to believe anymore. Thomas had tried to help him.

Hadn't he?

The extremes he had gone to had been shoved to the recesses of Sam's mind. The memories had always been there, but they'd paled in comparison to the fear created by Lucifer.

Of Lucifer.

Doubt seeped in. Who was he supposed to trust?

A squealing groan made him flinch hard, every muscle tensing. Sam turned his head towards the sound, licking his lips nervously. He waited. Heard nothing else. He continued to wait.

The silence dragged on.

"Who are you? What do you want?" he called eventually, unable to take the wait. And yelped when something hard – a fist – smacked into his cheek, knocking his head to the side. He gasped in pain, trying to twist away but the cuffs held fasten. Still the newcomer said nothing. His heart began to hammer, smacking into his ribs.

"Please. Let me go," he begged, hating the tone but unable to find a stronger one. He just wanted to go. Instead, another blow snapped his head the other way and left him gasping and his knees buckling. Footsteps thumped across the floor, followed by the squealing groan of the door.

"No! Wait!" Sam cried, but the door slammed shut.

oOo

He fought.

Dean fought and bucked and howled, his rage endless. But the chair and the chains held him fast. He watched the man enter on the TV, circling his brother, doing nothing as Sam flinched and squirmed. His baby brother was terrified, the fear rolling off him in waves; Dean could see it plain as day. His face was obscured by the heavy blindfold, but Dean watched him heaving strenuous breaths through dry lips, fighting to keep control. When the masked man struck him the first time, Dean lost it. The corded muscles in his arms bulged as he yanked and heaved but he was no match for the metal holding him down.

His vision tinted red as he watched the coward just stand there, watching Sam. The fact that his face was covered by a black ski mask registered with some small logical part of his mind, but that was a pale whisper, barely an echo in his head. All he saw was his brother suffering.

And there was nothing he could do to stop it.

oOo

Ketch looked up from his laptop as Griffin entered, lifting the ski mask off over his head. He walked past Ketch silently, opening the small fridge that they'd put in the corner and grabbed a bottle of water. Unscrewing it, he drank a mouthful as he stood behind the Englishman, watching the screen which Ketch had split into two: both brothers visible. Griff's eyes stayed on Dean for a moment.

"I get the point of Sam being here, but why Dean?" he asked curiously, taking another sip.

"He must understand what Sam has been through. He knows some of it but he doesn't _get_ it. I've tried to make him listen, but he hasn't truly accepted what has happened to his brother. A part of this exercise is for him to see that he cannot always save Sam and that that's alright," Ketch explained without looking up.

"There are easier ways of doing that." Griff pointed out.

"True, but much less effective. Seeing is believing, as they say and he'll need to have seen this to understand Sam's reactions later," Ketch shrugged, finally swivelling in his chair, picking up a sheet of paper and passing it to the mercenary. "I'd like you to do another couple of cursory visits like you've just done. Don't say anything to him at this point. The rest of your schedule is here for the day. It's imperative that you stick to it and the wording given. I'll be back later, but call me if there's an emergency."

Dispassionate brown met icy grey and Griff nodded, looking down and scanning over the sheet.

"There won't be," he assured. Ketch nodded and fixed his suit jacket, slipping his phone into his pocket before leaving. Griffin watched him go, unable to decide if he was unspeakably cruel or strangely caring. Either way, ethics and morality had both been left at the door.

Shrugging, he grabbed a protein bar from the fridge and sat down, putting his feet up on the table.

oOo

 **Sioux Falls, South Dakota**

"He's creepy."

"He is not. He's just a little…"

"Stiff? Like the stick up his ass?"

Jody glared at Claire over the breakfast table, watching the blonde pick at her croissant with slim fingers and sticking it in her mouth. The sheriff rolled her eyes, refusing to retaliate. Claire would just have another comeback and, truth be told, she couldn't really argue with the teenager.

She'd missed this. Obviously, her boys were a huge priority and she would never regret helping to find Sam, but leaving her girls had been hard. They'd come home after the scare with James was over but she'd been gone for too long. Claire had been in and out, hunting on her own. _Someone needs to kick ass while Sam and Dean are out of it._ That had added more worry to Jody's already mountainous pile, but Claire was more careful than she used to be and the older woman had to accept that. This was the first breakfast they'd had together in months; she wasn't going to let it descend into an argument so quickly.

"You don't have to be such a bitch about everything," Alex rolled her eyes, but there was no malice in her tone.

"As long as he's helpin', it doesn't matter what he's like. Yeah, he's not that conventional, but since when have half the people we work with ever been?" Jody replied, raising an eyebrow that dared Claire to respond. It was the teen's turn to roll her eyes. Jody took the chance to change the subject. "What're your plans today?"

"I've got the day shift," Alex answered, nibbling on a piece of bacon. Jody nodded. Alex had got a normal job – god, she was so happy it was _normal_ – waitressing down at one of the local diners. It was helping her college fund and boosting her confidence which had been knocked by the vampires again not a year ago.

"I caught a case down in St Paul, Minnesota," Claire grinned around her mouthful. Jody frowned. "It's only a ghost. I got this," the teen added, smirking when Jody's glare eased. At least it wasn't anything major like vampires. Or werewolves. She knew Claire was building herself up to take on bigger game, but, for now, she seemed to realise that Jody needed her to stay on the safer side of danger. If that existed.

Both girls had wanted to help her with her research for Dean, but she'd put her foot down hard on that one. While they had both seen a whole host of supernatural horrors, Jody couldn't let them see the depths of depravity that Sam had suffered. The kind of torture he'd experienced…she shivered involuntarily. Hell, she didn't want to go there.

"Alright. How long do you think it'll take you?" she asked.

"I've done a bit of the research. Couple of days, maybe," Claire shrugged nonchalantly but caught the look in Jody's eye and scowled. "I'll call."

The sheriff nodded as someone rapped on the door three times. Claire's chair scraped across the floor as she got up. "That's my cue to run."

"He's not that bad," Jody grumbled as she headed for the front door. She opened it, revealing Ketch on the porch, his suit as pristine as ever.

"Good morning," he greeted politely as she stepped aside to let him in. He obliged as Claire barrelled past, her bag slung over her shoulder.

"Be safe!" Jody yelled after her, getting a sarcastic wave in return. Ketch looked at her quizzically. "Ghost hunt," she explained and he nodded sagely. "How is your hotel?"

"Oh, fine, fine. I started to make some headway, I believe," he replied, following her into her dining room where he put Thomas' laptop down on the table next to Jody's.

"What did you wanna work on?" she asked, passing him a mug of coffee.

"I thought we could start tracking likely spots for Sam to visit based on his past experiences and current travel."

"Wouldn't that be easier with Dean too?"

"Dean and I are still on…eggshells," Ketch admitted his expression almost rueful. "Plus, I imagine he's rather preoccupied at the moment."

There was something in the way he said it that sent a shiver down Jody's spine. He _was_ creepy; she couldn't deny it. Shoving the feeling to one side, she fired up her laptop.

"You take where he's been in the last couple of weeks. I'll do his past."

oOo

 **Lennox, South Dakota**

"Do you want to be here?"

Sam flinched, the voice whispering too close to his ear. His heart pounded agonisingly against his ribs. If it beat much harder, it was going to stop. Sweat dampened his skin, made his shirt stick uncomfortably to him. Every breath was a short, sharp gasp and he couldn't slow it down.

 _Calm down. Calm down calmdown calmdowncalmdowncalmdown…_

"I asked you a question."

He jerked his head away, hating the feel of hot breath on the back of his neck. The hairs rose there and his skin prickled with fear. It was the fourth time the man had been back, but it was the first time he'd spoken. Sam hadn't spoken first this time; the other three occasions had each resulted in a hit that left him reeling. Sam didn't recognise his voice. He didn't recognise anything about him – not his footfalls, not his smell, nothing. Even if he wasn't blindfolded, he doubted he would know his captor.

That unnerved the Winchester more than anything.

Why was Lucifer doing this to him? Why was he taking on the guise of someone unknown? What was the point?

It didn't matter. Sam was giving the man – whoever he was – exactly what he wanted. He wanted Sam's fear. Sam just wanted to _go_. Why wouldn't he let him go? He hadn't done anything.

Why did this keep happening?

"I'm not going to be very happy if you make me repeat myself."

"Please. Just let me go," he begged again, hands balling into fists, trying to stop the trembling of his fingers. He didn't know why he tried to hide it; the man already knew he was weak.

"I can't do that. Not until you admit it." His tone wasn't quite as vicious that time. It was matter-of-fact.

"I don't want to be here," Sam whimpered, twisting his hands. The leather bit into them, chewing at the soft flesh that was slowly going numb from being lifted above his head for so long. He had no concept of time anymore. It was just like being back in the cellar. Terror clawed up his throat, making his mouth dry.

"I don't believe you. I think you _want_ this. It reminds you of him." The man goaded, his honeyed voice moving as his boots thumped on the concrete floor. Sam swallowed, almost choking on the lump in his throat.

"No," he rasped, shaking his head vehemently. It wasn't true. He didn't want this at all. He _wanted_ his freedom. And yet he couldn't get it because he was weak. He was weak and he loathed that it was true.

"I think it does. You feel _safe_ like this. You don't want control."

"You're wrong!" he cried, bursting into a fit of struggling, yanking on his arms and rubbing his face against his biceps but the blindfold wouldn't shift. The cuffs bit into his wrists, his ankles; there was no give at all. He sagged helplessly, letting his head drop forward.

"You don't know how to be in control anymore," the man whispered next to his ear. "You're weak. You can't escape because you don't want to. You're not a leader.

"This removes your responsibility. You want to be told what to do, where to go, how to live. This makes your pitiful existence _easier,_ " the voice hissed derisively. He wanted to scream and rail against his words, but Sam couldn't find the strength.

"You're wrong," he whispered brokenly, yelping when another blow snapped his head to the side, sending stars exploding in the dark, sparking agony through his already bruised cheek. The chains rattled as his legs buckled.

"I'm not. If I was, you wouldn't be back here, chained to a ceiling. Helpless. Again. You wanted to be caught because then you don't have to answer to anyone – yourself included – about why you gave in. And you did; it was your choice."

"No, it wasn't," he sobbed. He had never had the choice. Choice was a luxury he'd been denied for too long.

"It was. And you're going to think about that and, when I come back, your training will begin. We're going to make it right. I'm going to make you different. It's not going to be hard for me; I found all the original methods. The harder you resist, the harder it will be for you. Remember: I know exactly what works with you."

He cried out as his arms were suddenly jerked up higher, forcing him to stand on the tips of his toes.

"No! Don't! You can't leave me here!" he shouted, already feeling the burn burst through his shoulders, the shallowness of his breath intensify as his chest was stretched up. The footsteps echoed out, followed by the high-pitched squeal and heavy slam, leaving him alone.

Silence reigned.

The darkness closed in, bearing down, getting blacker and more ominous behind the blindfold. Sam's panting got louder, more ragged, mixing with the blood roaring in his ears.

He couldn't go through this. Not again. He needed to get out.

 _"But I_ am _here for you; I want to help you through this."_ The familiar voice, so different to the one who had just tormented him, droned around him, stopping his blood cold.

That voice had given him some small semblance of hope. But now the dread built itself up again as the memories surfaced with its soft whisperings.

"No…" Sam whimpered, struggling to breathe. He couldn't listen; he didn't want this. Why was he doing this?!

 _"It's my job. It's what I'm going to do. I'll keep you safe. You'll be alright as long as I'm here,"_ Thomas's voice crooned again, tinny and echoing through a set of speakers. It was a lie. It was all a lie. No one could protect him. No one could keep him safe.

Alone in the dark, Sam screamed.

oOo

 **Fear not: there is method to Ketch's madness. I promise :)**

 **Please review!**


	9. Stuck in the Middle with You

**Thank you for the reviews! I've gone with a shorter chapter because it gets pretty intense.**

oOo

 _"No one can save him."_

 _\- The Betrayal, Nickelback_

oOo

 **Lennox, South Dakota**

 _When I come back, your training will begin. We're going to make it right. I'm going to make you different._

What the hell was he talking about? What training? What was he going to do?

Sweat beaded on Dean's forehead, his nostrils flared as his chest heaved. He could feel the rawness around his wrists both near the metal cuffs and the plastic ones. Warmth trickled down his right hand: the plastic had cut deep. He watched his brother thrash and scream and could do nothing.

He'd never felt this broken.

Give him Hell again, send him back with Alastair, stick him back in Purgatory. Anything but this. Dean couldn't hear Sam – the audio feed had been turned off – but he was forced to watch. He knew what his brother's screams sounded like. They'd last for what could've been hours. Now, Sam just hung there, his head tipped forward, the tension gone from his body. He wasn't relaxed – far from it. Dean recognised that look; Sam had given up. Given in. And it had happened so quickly.

Dean couldn't deal with it.

A bolt being snapped back echoed behind him and Dean turned his head, his look pure poison. The man from Sam's cell entered, still wearing the ski mask. He paid little attention to Dean's expression and even less to his incoherent obscenities, but he did take in the sight of the blood dripping down the length of Dean's little finger. His barrel chest huffed an exasperated sigh. Dean scowled, watching him leave again.

He was back within a minute, a black box and bottle of water dwarfed in his huge hands. Dean's gaze followed him suspiciously as the man walked behind him and crouched down out of view. The hunter growled angrily when he felt something cool and wet applied to his hand, wiping away the blood that was running down it. He tried wrenching his hands away but the chain was pulled taut, keeping him still.

"I'm just cleaning your wrist," his captor said idly. Dean scowled, clenching his hands into fists. Why the hell did he care? He'd spent half the day beating on Sam with little regard for Sam's comfort. Cleaning Dean's wounds made no sense. He felt the plastic cuffs snapping off and couldn't bite back his groan when antiseptic was applied to his wrists. The man worked silently, wrapping his wrists with bandages – both of them – before reapplying a set of plastic cuffs over the bandages, the zipping sound harsh in the quiet.

Dean ignored him, fixing his gaze back on Sam. He willed him to lift his head up, to put up some sort of fight. Sam did nothing; he just hung there.

Griffin packed the medical supplies back in the box and snapped it shut, putting it by the door. He circled around to Dean's front, staring down at him. The hunter refused to look up at him. Griff didn't really blame him. If he'd had a brother who was about to be tortured in front of him, the mercenary would be pissed too. He moved in front of Dean's view of Sam.

"You need to drink. Are you going to be a bitch about it?" he asked. Livid green rose up to meet him. Unfazed, Griff untied the cloth from around Dean's mouth and pulled the second one out.

"SAM!" Dean roared the second his mouth was free.

oOo

"Dean." Sam's whimper was small and broken. The familiar sound of his brother yelling his name was distant and so…real. Sam lifted his head, wishing to God that it was. That sound: the desperation, the anger, the protectiveness that came with it was everything that he missed. It took him back to every time he fell as a kid, to the hunts that were going wrong, but, underneath all the pain and fear, he knew it was going to be okay because his big brother was there and Dean would make it right. It flooded over the terror that was aching through his muscles – just for a moment – washing it away and giving him a modicum of comfort. No wonder his mind recreated it.

Try as he might though, Sam couldn't bring it back, couldn't recreate it again. His head dropped down again as the fear rekindled.

oOo

"That wasn't exactly _helpful,_ was it?" Griffin scowled, his hand cupped tightly over Dean's mouth. They'd both heard the tiny whimper from Sam – now that the sound was back on – and how utterly alone he sounded. Griff almost felt sorry for him; clearly the brothers meant a lot to each other. "I don't recommend trying anything else. He does think you're the Devil after all. You'll end up scaring the shit outta him more."

Dean glared up at him, but knew that he was right. Instinct had just kicked in. If Sam thought he had anything to do with this, he'd never get his brother back. The man removed his hand.

"Like you haven't done that already," he spat venomously. "Who the fuck are you?"

"Drink," Griff offered the opened water bottle. Dean just glared up at him. He shrugged. "Or don't. I don't care either way."

Dean's mouth was bone dry and he knew he needed his strength when he got free. Silently, he drank, feeling life flow back through his dry throat.

"Answer my damned question," he snarled when he'd finished, refusing to thank his captor.

"It doesn't matter who I am."

"Sure it does," Dean grinned, baring his teeth. "I wouldn't want to kill you without knowing your name."

Griffin rolled his eyes; he expected the bravado. He'd never had a target who didn't threaten him. Funnily enough, none had managed it yet.

"I don't suppose you're gonna go and give my brother the same treatment as me, are you?"

"No." Dean's blood began to boil once more. "Sam needs to go through a process and that's not part of it. You may not think it, but I _am_ trying to help your brother."

"Bullshit," Dean growled. "You're just some whackjob who gets off on torturin' people!"

"Believe what you need to," the man replied, shrugging. "Open up." He jammed the wadded cloth back into Dean's mouth before the hunter had a chance to protest, hooking the second one around his lips to secure it in place. Dean groaned as he cinched it off, leaving him alone, staring helplessly up at his brother.

oOo

The door squealed and groaned open, sending a ripple of dread running through Sam. If he was back, it wasn't for anything good. He stood back on both feet evenly, having spent the last few hours shifting his weight between them. Exhaustion filled him but sleep was never going to be forthcoming chained as he was. That was probably the point.

He heard wood scrape against concrete close to him on his right and turned his face in that direction, the muscles in his shoulders tensing. The wood creaked as someone heavy settled on it. Sam waited, not speaking. He wasn't supposed to speak first; their first couple of interactions had proved that.

"So, Sam. Let's get started." It was the same man from before. Sam didn't know if that was a good thing or not. "Tell me about Thomas."

Sam frowned. Whoever it was knew as much as he did – probably more – seeing as how he had recordings of Thomas. He swallowed hard at the memory of the words that had echoed around the cell until a little while ago. The things he'd said…they were memories that Sam didn't want to remember so he'd shoved them down. Hard.

"I'm waiting, Sam."

"Thomas tried to save me," he blurted out, not wanting to make his captor angry. He yelped when a blow landed just below his ribs, unable to brace, having not seen it coming.

"That's a lie, Sam." The chair creaked as his captor shifted back. Sam's head dipped forward as he tried to steady his breathing, feeling his hair brushing across his forehead. He shook his head.

"It's not! I –" he cried out again as another punch landed in the same place, making stars explode in the darkness.

"Tell me what he was doing to you in those recordings."

Sam panted, confusion bleeding through him as the pain spread across his lower abdomen. Surely he already knew? He stayed silent again, not out of defiance, but because he didn't know what the man wanted. He almost felt a change in the air as the man stepped near him, obviously about to strike him again.

"Wait!" Sam pleaded, twisting away from the encroaching presence as much as he could. "What part? I don't know what you want." He felt the air dissipate as the man stepped away.

"Let me be more specific then."

Sam almost cried with relief until he heard Thomas' voice whisper up to him again, much quieter this time as though it was coming from a smaller device.

 _"It's my job. It's what I'm going to do. I'll keep you safe. You'll be alright as long as I'm here."_

Sam swallowed audibly, trying desperately to push down the memory. He didn't want to see it, didn't want to remember it. _If you don't, he'll hurt you more_. Screwing his eyes tightly shut behind the blindfold, Sam let the memory in piece by piece, but he tried to keep it controlled, detached.

"Thomas was telling me about Lucifer," he offered, tensing for a hit.

It didn't come.

"That's what he was telling you. I want to know what he _did_ to you," his captor prompted, sounding almost bored. Sam licked his chapped lips nervously. The images slowly flashed up, giving him brief glimpses before he pushed them back.

"He just talked to me," he whispered.

"No, he didn't. Stop lying, Sam."

"I'm not lying!" he shouted, clenching his teeth, anger mixing with trepidation.

"I didn't think we'd need to use force this early on. I was under the assumption that you were smarter than that but I guess you're not leaving me any choice."

"Wait! You don't nee–" a screech ripped from his throat, destroying his sentence as his whole body went taut, excruciating pain ripping through every nerve ending.

Griffin held the cattle prod to Sam's ribs for a fraction of a second longer before pulling it away. He watched Sam convulse and twitch, his mouth hanging open as he sucked in ragged breaths, fighting the pain that was coursing through him. The mercenary had been hit with plenty of tasers in his time; he knew how much they hurt and the cattle prod wasn't much different. He'd actually expected to need it earlier, but, when Sam had asked for clarification, he'd given the boy the benefit of the doubt. He might be broken, but he'd already endured a variety of torture techniques. Griff doubted he would be doing anything new to him.

"Let's try that again. What did he _do_ to you during that conversation?" he asked, giving the younger man a moment to recover. "Think carefully before you answer, boy," he warned.

"I…he…" Sam gasped, trying to find the words, letting the memories come up, flinching when they raced forwards. "I was tied to the bed. Facedown. We talked and then he gagged me."

"Does that sound like someone who would was _saving_ you?"

Sam opened his mouth and closed it again, caught out by the question. What was he trying to get at?

"Thomas said it was necessary," he answered slowly.

"Why?"

"Because I was dangerous. Lucifer is attuned to me; he'd be able to hear me if I shouted," Sam explained, swallowing, waiting for another hit with the taser.

"Sounds more like someone trying to keep their prisoner quiet to me," the man retorted and Sam twisted uncomfortably. Had it been like that? He recoiled when the man jabbed at his right shoulder with a finger.

"Tell me what this is."

"It's a sigil to stop angels getting into my head." Sam replied, wishing he could run. He didn't want to be questioned; he didn't like where it was going.

"Who put it there?"

"I did," Sam whispered. He shrieked when the cattle prod stabbed him in his side, sending his whole body back into convulsions. It stopped and he was left hanging by his wrists, coughing feebly.

" _That_ is a brand. You couldn't do it to yourself," his captor remarked, his tone void of any malice. He was simply stating fact. "Thomas did it."

"No…" Sam shook his head. He couldn't believe it. Didn't want to. And paid for it with another 9,000 volts.

"Think hard, Sam. You know it, deep down."

 _It'll be over soon, don't you worry._

The electricity ripped the memory open and up to the forefront of his mind. He'd been lying on a cold metal table, held down by Anna as Thomas hovered over him. The memory was blurred and out of focus – like he'd been drugged. The drug didn't dull the pain, but he didn't feel it anymore. He remembered a glint of metal and then the worst pain he'd ever felt.

"Does that sound like someone who was _saving_ you? Or someone who was cutting you off from those who care about you?" the man prompted again as Sam shook his head. But he _had_ …Lucifer would've found him otherwise.

Griffin watched Sam carefully, giving him a moment to digest his words. He didn't care much for all this talk of angels and Lucifer – Ketch had given him a brief overview which he hadn't particularly believed – but the kid did and that was what mattered right now. Griff wasn't there to discount those beliefs: just the ones in Thomas.

The mercenary had no idea who he'd been but he'd done one hell of a number on the Winchester. Again, Griff had seen plenty of interrogations, accounts of conditioning and brainwashing, but this was something else. He just hoped the boy had enough spark left in him for this whole thing to work. Griff just needed to ignite it. If he didn't, Sam would never be the same again.

He wouldn't survive what Ketch had planned.

"He had his reasons," Sam whispered and Griff rolled his eyes as he jabbed the cattle prod into his side again, releasing a shriek from him.

"Reasons that were not for your benefit." Griffin replied as Sam coughed feebly. "Let's move on." He pressed play again.

 _"I wish you weren't making me do this, Sam. But you're not going to learn until you experience the consequences of your defiance."_

Sam's mouth instantly went dry and a wave of nausea overtook him. It wasn't caused by the electrocutions, despite the agony they caused. Its root was in the memory that was pushing its way forward, edging towards the front of his mind and he knew that he didn't want to remember this one. The dread attached to those words was overwhelming.

"Stop fighting it, Sam. Tell me what he did."

He didn't want to – he really didn't. Everything in Sam told him to run but the man wouldn't let him. He was determined to make Sam confront his memories. No matter how painful.

"Why are you doing this to me?" he pleaded, his tone utterly broken. The younger Winchester let his head drop against his chest. Griff studied him carefully. He was nearly spent.

"Tell me that last answer – truthfully – and I'll let you rest and have a drink. But _only_ if you're telling me the truth," he explained carefully, a warning still present in his tone.

Sam's head bobbed up and down willingly and, with a shudder, he let the memory open.

 _Thomas shoved the spout of a plastic funnel between his teeth, pressing his tongue down. Sam bucked, wrenching his head to the side but Thomas kept a firm grip on the funnel and his chin, holding it in place, forcing his teeth to clamp around it. "I wish you weren't making me do this, Sam. But you're not going to learn until you experience the consequences of your defiance."_

 _Sam's eyes widened and he fought desperately as Thomas picked up the bowl of porridge and slowly began tipping it into the wide end of the funnel. The lukewarm substance slid into his mouth and went straight to the back of his throat. He coughed and gagged, writhing but he couldn't shift Thomas' hand. His throat swallowed involuntarily, choking down the revolting lumpy mixture. His eyes watered as it just kept coming._

"He force-fed me because I wouldn't do as he told me to," Sam whispered, his voice breaking as he felt tears sting behind closed eyes. He was glad Dean couldn't see him now; the overwhelming shame blanketed over him, mocking him for ever letting himself get like this.

"That doesn't sound like someone trying to save you." This time it wasn't a question. The man's voice was soft, almost sympathetic, and Sam found himself shaking his head dejectedly as a bottle was held to his lips.

oOo

Helplessness was not a feeling Dean was used to nor did he welcome it at all. The entire conversation was completely screwed up. Every time he watched his baby brother get hit with another round from the cattle prod, his whole body involuntarily tensed with him, sharing Sammy's pain without feeling it. But his responses…

Dean felt ill.

It was a sickness unlike anything he'd ever felt and he'd had to fight hard to push back the bile that threatened to rise. With the gag in his mouth, there was nowhere for it to go and he really didn't want to choke on his own puke. He watched as their captor finally gave Sam a drink, easing his suffering just a bit.

 _Why now?_

Dean frowned, watching as the man left Sam's cell. He didn't want to, but he started to replay the interaction between the two men in the other room, focusing on the times the man left Sam alone and then when he'd hurt him. Slowly, Dean's heart began to pound as the pieces started to drop into place. He knew exactly what their captor was doing.

He was conditioning Sam.

Every time Sam did something he didn't like, the man hurt him. When he got what he wanted from Sam, he left him alone. Anger flared through Dean, hot and consuming. He had no _right!_ Sam was damaged enough; he didn't deserve any more!

Yanking on his chains again, Dean fought for his freedom. If he didn't save Sam now, no one could.

oOo

 **Sioux Falls, South Dakota**

Ketch sat alone in the quiet dining room, typing his current report to Markham. It left out the boys' abduction and Griffin Andrews' true purpose. It wasn't at all false: he _had_ included all his other current research and the work he was doing with Jody, but it was more…prudent if Markham didn't know. It exonerated them all for a start; the Head of the British Men of Letters would never assume Ketch wouldn't tell him everything and therefore he would be genuine if questioned by Dean at a later date.

His phone buzzed on the table, _unknown caller_ displayed on the screen. The Englishman checked the time quickly; Jody had gone to get them lunch from a nearby diner ten minutes ago. There was time before she got back.

"Mr Andrews. How are you getting on?" he greeted, saving his report with his spare hand.

"Fine. Dean is…frustrated."

"I should think he is. I presume he hasn't heard any of the recordings I gave you?"

"No. I was careful, don't worry. I muted the TV the first time and used a recorder the second time – it was quiet enough that Dean wouldn't have been able to hear it," Griff explained as Ketch nodded.

"Good. For your safety, keep it that way," he advised. "How about Sam?"

"I've started to discredit Thomas as you requested. He's…confused, obviously and in denial. I wouldn't expect anything else this early on except maybe defiance, but I don't think he's got it in him anymore."

"Did you start the contradiction process as well?"

"I started to mix it in, which I'll continue to do," the mercenary explained, the clicking of keys sounding behind him down the line. "I think tying the two – the discrediting and the contradictory phases – will work better on Sam. If I push too far, too hard, he'll snap completely. I think I'm gonna start phase two already."

Ketch pondered for a moment, staring at the clock mounted on Jody's wall.

"Alright," he conceded. "Sedate both of them for the time being and wait until I get there. I'd rather be able to monitor the second phase and I cannot leave yet. I'll call when I do."

"No problem."

The line clicked off and Ketch tapped his phone thoughtfully against his chin. The Winchesters would unknowingly thank him one day.

Not today though.

oOo

 **Lennox, South Dakota**

Griffin opened the door to the cell, unsurprised to see a sheen of sweat coating Dean's skin and drenching his shirt. The eldest Winchester just didn't give up. He was stoically staring forward, constantly watching his little brother, paying no heed to the mercenary. Maybe he thought if he willed it enough, Sam would drop out of his restraints and run. It was quite…touching, really and Griff found himself surprisingly fond of both brothers. He appreciated loyalty and strong wills and could see the qualities in both boys. Dean's were obviously a lot stronger – clearly he was used to being the protector – and what he was being put through was probably almost as bad as Sam's predicament. For someone as strong as the hunter to be forced into helplessness was an extreme torment. But, as Ketch had said, Dean needed to know that he _couldn't_ be the one to save Sam.

Sam.

The poor kid was never going to be saved by his brother; not this time. Griff could imagine what a formidable team the pair would've made together long before whatever had happened to separate them. He made a mental note that, when this was all said and done, he'd find somewhere far, far away to have a long vacation. God knew he deserved one.

Stepping up behind the Winchester, he slid a hand around across his forehead, holding his head still firmly but gently. Dean moaned and struggled as the needle in his other hand slid into his neck and he depressed the plunger. Griff took it out and released him, giving him a single clap on the shoulder. Dean shook his head, trying to fight the effects but it wasn't long before the tension fell involuntarily from his shoulders and neck and his head slumped forwards.

Griffin left the room, locking it again as he made his way to the second cell, already pulling a second syringe from the small box in his pocket. He slipped into Sam's cell, noting the flinch that happened every time Sam heard the door open. Walking quietly behind the boy, Griff pulled the neck of his shirt collar down, giving him better access to Sam's neck.

"No," Sam moaned when he stuck the needle in and pressed the plunger.

"Shhh, just relax," he coaxed, releasing the younger man's shirt. Within moments, Sam began to crumple until he was hanging by his wrists. He'd give it a few more minutes to make sure he was completely under before Griff unhooked him.

Then phase two would begin.

oOo

 **Obviously, deprogramming a brainwashed victim is not an easy process for any parties involved and I've done as much research as I can into the topic and how it's done (honestly, sometimes I think my internet search history makes me look like a maniac!). I hope I'm doing a believable enough job!**

 **Please review!**


	10. Psychological Warfare

**I'm so glad so many of you are still enjoying this series, harrowing as it is at times! Ketch, while his methods are rather unorthodox, is trying to help (a lot more than Show!Ketch as many of you have pointed out!).**

oOo

 _"Sometimes I feel like I've been tied to the whipping post."_

 _\- Whipping Post, The Allaman Brothers' Band_

oOo

 _He stood on the front lawn of the farmhouse, looking out across the darkness to the glowing lights of the house. The light feathered out from the windows, streaking in warm, inviting spears that glistened against the black. It beckoned him, drawing him with an invitation of safety. Sam took a step towards it, feeling a gentle heat brush against his cheeks. He felt…content. Like everything was going to be okay if he kept moving forwards._

 _Idly, he looked over his shoulder. Darkness settled heavy and cold behind him, bearing down. Slowly, he turned his head again, facing the light. He took another step. The warmth and the contentment grew, enveloping him, its light tugging on him gently, pulling him forward. He took another._

 _And stopped._

 _There was something wrong. Something wasn't right. Sam turned his head again towards the darkness behind him. It was freezing, beating against his back, full of malice. And yet, there was something there. Something in it needed him. Doubt settled around him, easing when he looked forwards. He could ignore it. He could leave it behind and go to the light and not worry anymore._

Liar.

 _Sam wanted to go forwards. He knew he'd be okay if he got up there. He'd find some peace. That was all he could think about: peace. He didn't want any more pain, any more suffering. He's been through enough. The nagging feeling wouldn't let up though and he found himself turning. Deep down, he had the feeling he couldn't go forwards until he went back._

 _He stepped back, the warmth waning as he turned and edged forwards into the black. The cold bit at his cheeks and snapped against his fingertips but still he moved. A steel door, set into the ground, loomed up in front of him, making his heart pound. He knew that door. There was nothing good to be found down there._

 _And still his hand reached out, grasping the handle and opening it. The darkness spread like a gaping maw, somehow even more dense in the doorway. A chill blasted up from within._

Don't go. You can't go down there. Not again.

 _Just looking into the abyss before him made Sam's stomach churn and his heart leap into his throat. His feet were frozen to the ground, leaving him teetering on the edge. The warm light behind him rubbed against his back, imploring him silently. There was nothing good waiting for him down in that hole. Sam had never been so sure of anything in his life. Yet, the feeling that he was needed wouldn't go. Drawing a huge breath, he forced his foot forwards and down the first step._

 _Nothing grabbed him; nothing happened at all._

 _Steeling his spine, the Winchester moved forwards, taking each step slowly and carefully. A pained, guttural moan echoed up through darkness by the time he'd got to the fourth step. It stopped him cold, making the hairs on his arms rise unwillingly. It was a choked sound, a whimper, of someone's suffering; someone who had been through too much. It was familiar, wasn't it?_

Go back.

 _He couldn't. There was something too familiar about the voice behind the moan. He had to face it – had to know if it was real. If it was, he couldn't leave._

 _Swallowing hard, he placed a hand on the wall and stepped down again, dread eating away at him the further down he went. The stairs became endless, extending out further and further as if they were goading him, pushing him to turn back, to make the easy choice._

 _Sam refused._

 _Somewhere behind him, the door slammed shut with a familiar bang that made him shiver. How many times had he heard that sound over the last month? Once it had almost brought relief, but, near the end, there was a desperation linked to it; a need to not be left alone in the dark._

 _A light glowed cold and ominous ahead of him. Another whimper sounded. He started to jog, his feet pounding against the stairs. He was needed. For the first time in a long time, Sam felt a sense of panic for someone else. He wasn't the one that needed saving._

 _Another moan, this time long and drawn out, pain etched into its tone. Sam recognised the sound of his own name behind the incoherent sound. He ran faster, desperate to reach the bottom, to help._

 _To save._

 _He stumbled, falling onto the ground at the bottom, his head snapping up. Thomas stood in front of him, his back to the Winchester. He was in his grey suit, one hand grasping a metal rod, rotating it slowly in a low fire that crackled and snapped in a metal bowl. He turned to face Sam, staring down at him with a condescending grin._

 _"I'm going to make things right," he explained but Sam barely heard him. He stared, wide-eyed, beyond the Englishman, locking eyes with his brother who sat strapped into a chair, eyes full of unspoken agony, the same leather gag that Sam had been made to endure silencing him completely as a set of hands grasped either side of Dean's head. Sam looked up at the man behind his brother and his heart stopped._

 _"C'mon bunk buddy – join in. The fun's about to start," Lucifer winked, grinning broadly as his fingers dug into the sides of Dean's face. Thomas pulled the metal rod from the fire and aimed it towards Dean's face. Sam scrambled up. He wasn't going to make it._

 _Dean's howl of agony filled his ears as he ran forwards. He wasn't fast enough. The sound of flesh sizzling roared._

 _"NO!"_

oOo

 **Lennox, South Dakota**

Sam's anguished howl woke Dean with a start, snapping him awake in an instant. Disorientated, he tried to jerk forward but his body didn't obey. Frantically, he looked around, awareness dropping in like a deluge as he absorbed the room he was still stuck in. The Winchester was still in the small office, still strapped to the chair, still facing the television screen showing his baby brother. His eyes fixed on the screen, the green of his irises darkening to a deep emerald as he took in the view in front of him.

Sam wasn't hanging in the centre of his cell anymore; he'd been laid out on what looked like a gurney, wide medical straps wrapped around his wrists, ankles and over his chest and hips. He was still blindfolded but he was straining, the muscles in his arms bulging as he fought, his movements frantic and scared. Their captor was nowhere to be seen and Dean's heart sank when he recognised the signs. His little brother was having a nightmare and he couldn't make it right. He couldn't count the number of times they raced to each other's rooms, listening to the bellowing wails that echoed down the halls of the bunker. Nightmares came with the hunting territory but that didn't mean they were easy to listen to.

Dean couldn't stand it. He was useless – worse than. All he could do was sit there and watch, wishing he was anywhere else and drowning in his own guilt for it.

oOo

"Put this in," Ketch instructed, passing Griff a small wireless earbud which the mercenary slipped into his left ear. They'd both heard Sam's cry, but paid it little heed after checking the monitors on the laptop. It would've surprised them both more if he _wasn't_ having nightmares. For Ketch, he hoped it was positive step: Sam's subconscious could be working in their favour by supporting what Griff had already told him. "For this phase, Sam has to understand his lack of control which means mirroring what he would've experienced in the last few months. I'll feedback to you through the earpiece as and when I need to – particularly information about his past before all this happened. I have a pretty good idea of what Sam was like before all this started. Your primary objective is to make him realise how detestable this is to him and how Thomas was a liar. I want to see him start to fight back, not because of fear, but because of anger. Make him angry: show him he can still feel it."

Griff nodded, grabbing his last few bits of equipment.

"What about Dean?"

"Leave him for the moment," Ketch replied, taking a seat at the small desk as the mercenary left.

Griff walked down the short corridor, unbolting Sam's cell door and stepping in, taking in the sight of the younger brother. Sam was already drenched in sweat, his whole body tensed, fists clenched as he pulled relentlessly on the soft medical cuffs that ensnared his wrists. He was still blindfolded – he would be throughout the whole process; Griff wasn't stupid – but he twisted his head up at the sound of the door behind him.

"Why won't you let me go? I haven't done anything to you!" he pleaded, fear tingeing his voice once more.

"Enough, Sam," Griff warned, coming to a halt just by his head, ripping a strip of wide silver duct tape from a roll and sticking it to the edge of the bed.

"Listen, I don't know who you are but if you let me go, I won't –" Griff's hand snapped out, shoving a scrunched up sponge ball into Sam's mouth. The Winchester jerked his head, still trying to talk as Griff placed a hand over his mouth to stop him from spitting it out.

"You won't look for me? Yeah, I know," he finished for the younger man as he unstuck the strip of tape from the side of the bed and smoothed it over Sam's mouth with his thumbs. "That's the real kicker, isn't it? If this was all fake, like Thomas made you believe, you _would_ know who I am. Your mind can't just make up someone out of thin air."

Sam moaned, a deep guttural sound of desperation as he felt the panic rise up in his chest, sending his heart racing and making his breathing shallow as blood roared in his ears and drowned out what the man was saying. All he could see was Thomas' leering face in the dark. The sponge filled his mouth and he could already feel it soaking up the moisture from his tongue, the discomfort adding to his panic. If he couldn't talk, he couldn't reason with his captor and then he was right back where he started: mute, blind and out of control in a dark cellar. He bucked and writhed, straining with everything he had. He couldn't go through this. Not again.

 _"Get him to calm down first. This won't work if he can't listen to you."_ Ketch's voice was small and tinny through the earpiece, but Griff gave a small nod.

"Breathe, Sam. Long breaths in, c'mon," Griff urged, watching the youngest Winchester carefully.

Sam felt a warm hand on his arm and hated it, but it centred his mind, made him focus on something other than the panic that was starting to overwhelm him.

"Breathe in for four, you can do it." His captor's coaxing finally reached his ears and he registered what was being said, yet more confusion adding to the ever-growing mountain in his head. Why the hell was he trying to get Sam to do breathing exercises with him? Slowly, Sam grappled with his body, fighting for control of his breathing, focusing on it.

"Good, keep going. In for four, out for four." The minutes stretched like hours but his captor didn't rush him, never hurt him. Toni would have. She would've started her games regardless of his panic; she enjoyed his fear. He wasn't even like Thomas: there was no condescending crooning in his voice; there wasn't even sympathy. He was just quietly coaxing. It was…strange. Almost normal, ludicrous as that felt. With each inhale, Sam started to beat back the panic until he felt it finally reduce to a dull flicker in the back of his mind. He mumbled incoherently, knowing his meaning would be clear.

"Take the gag off? No," Griff replied nonchalantly, pulling up a chair and sitting just to Sam's right near his head. Sam growled, but his body remained relaxed as if he thought further reaction would inflict further sanctions. In his previous captivity, it probably had, Griff realised. "We had the question and answer session earlier on. This session is about some home truths and I don't need you interrupting me or begging me to let you go every five seconds. So you're gonna listen and you're gonna think about what I say to you.

"First off, Thomas was a liar."

Sam clenched his fists and shook his head, though with less vehemence than he had before. The nightmare still lingered: the nightmare vision of Thomas branding his brother while Lucifer held onto him was still too vivid in his mind's eye.

"Think about how you feel right now, in this moment, Sam. I've got you strapped to a table, unable to escape, to fight back – nothing. How does that make you feel?"

 _Terrified_.

The word formed, unbidden, floating around in his head as an instinctual first response. The panic nudged him from the back of his mind but he shoved it back, focusing on his breathing once again as his captor continued talking.

"You're scared. I can see it," Griffin replied for him, listening as Ketch whispered in his ear. "You were a hunter once; this is not the first time you've been held against your will. I doubt you felt scared then."

God, he didn't want this. Whatever perverse kind of _therapy_ this guy was selling wasn't something he wanted. It made no sense and that was, coupled with his undermining of everything Sam believed, the most unsettling part. He squirmed uneasily.

"Stop fighting it; think about it."

Sam found himself doing as he was told, his mind stretching back before he was taken by Toni. It felt…weird. Like he was stretching a muscle that he hadn't used in years. How long would it have been before he actually began to forget his old life? Suppressing a shudder, he pushed and prodded until a memory surfaced. It wasn't one of the most recent occasions, but his mind took him back to the barn he'd found himself in when on his way to The Black Spur.

 _"Breathe."_

The command was similar to the one that his captor had given him, but Cole's held no interest in Sam's wellbeing. The bag had been snatched off his head and he'd sat, zip-tied to a chair, with every twist of his wrists sending shooting pains up through his dislocated arm. Yeah, there had been pain and the angry marine had threatened to torture him. He'd even started to, but Sam just hadn't been…bothered. He'd been frustrated.

Why?

Because Dean had needed him and Cole was wasting his time. Because he'd had a dud shoulder which had stopped him from fighting back initially. Because he'd been distracted and let himself get caught. There had only been one moment when he'd felt fear: when Cole had called Dean and Dean hadn't cared.

That fear had been different: it wasn't for himself; he was afraid of what had been done to his brother.

"What would that Sam think of you?" his captor's voice brought him back to the present again, goading him. "I don't know that guy but I can imagine the kinda things he'd say. Weak. Useless."

Sam grumbled, trying to work the tape loose on his face, but it stuck fast. That Sam wouldn't have ever said those things. He wouldn't have judged; he would've helped. He would've wondered what got the man before him to such a place where he felt like he could barely function. The thought brought a lump to his throat that he fought to swallow. When did he stop being that version of himself?

"Would that Sam so readily believe that this is all an illusion? How much proof would he have needed to believe it?" the man continued and uneasiness pooled in Sam's gut, doubting washing through him like a tidal wave. Old Sam believed in research, in facts and stories that supported each other. He never accepted anything from one source; he always found at least one more to back it up. "You need _proof_ , Sam, that this is real. That you're not living in a fantasy world in your head. You need someone you could go to – someone that Lucifer would never consider – to get your answers. To get your proof. There has to be someone that you could go to for that."

It had to be in his head. Dean would have come for him long ago if it wasn't, not the puppet Lucifer kept sending.

Griff watched Sam carefully, judging the subtle changes in his body language. It was a fine line for him to plant the suggestions but keep pushing as well.

"Think about Thomas – who you trusted. He told you he'd save you. I could tell you the same thing now, but does it feel like it? Does being held captive feel like you're being _helped_?"

Sam moaned and shook his head, pulling on his wrists again.

"This is no different to what Thomas did to you but you seem fine with the idea of Thomas doing it. Why not someone else?" Griff provoked him further, seeing Sam's chest start to rise and fall more heavily, his fingers slowly curling into fists. "Thomas made you dependent on him. He forced you to feel that way by doing this to you, by lying to you about how long he left you, by playing you _recordings of your brother_ and then telling you they were in your head. _That_ is manipulation, Sam and _you let it happen."_

"Mmph!" Sam's shout was muffled but his meaning was clear as he thrashed, his nostrils flared and his arms straining at his sides. It wasn't his fault! He had no control over what had been done to him. The memory of Thomas just before they left the cellar flooded back, now tinged with doubt.

 _"Lunch time, Sam – sorry it's a bit late."_

 _"Lunch?" Sam rasped, his voice crackling. "Thomas, you've been gone for days!"_

 _"What? Sam, it's been a few hours; I left you at breakfast."_

Why hadn't he contested it? Why hadn't he fought back? The strange emotion of contentment, of ease at Thomas' return trickled back in to his memory but he didn't feel it now. Horror began to fill Sam; Thomas had done something to him – something more – something to skew his emotions.

 _"Keep going, he's getting there,"_ Ketch ordered in his ear. Griff resisted the urge to roll his eyes; any idiot could see it was.

"You could've fought more, fought harder, but YOU gave in. You didn't want to fight. It was _easier_ to just give in and believe whatever he told you so that you didn't have to face your own reality," he pushed, nearly shouting now as Sam bucked and writhing, howling incoherent protests at him. "You couldn't accept how broken you were and, instead of trying to fix yourself, you let him break you more! Thomas wasn't your saviour; he was your _tormentor_. He was a sick psychopath who thrived on the power YOU gave him because it's easier for you to dump responsibility on someone else! Is that what you used to do with Dean?"

Griff stopped as Sam suddenly froze at his brother's name. He didn't relax; he didn't move. The corded muscles in his arms were bulging as the tension grew in the room, becoming almost palpable.

"You didn't want him to see you that way. That's why you haven't fought this. You don't want him to see how weak you really are. You need to stop taking the easy route. Following Thomas' lies, lying here and taking _this_ – they're all easy. Stop relying on other people. No one is going to come and save you, Sam. Not Thomas, not your brother. No one. You're stuck here. You don't need their help."

Slowly, the tautness in Sam's body loosened and dropped, his fists unclenching and his breathing returning to normal. It was a defeatist's reaction though; each movement was controlled. Griff smiled with grim satisfaction; he'd got want he'd wanted.

Sam had got angry.

It was the first time he hadn't reacted with fear or panic. It was what they needed from him. Reaching over, Griff grabbed the edge of the tape and pulled it as gently as he could but knew it probably still hurt. Yet, Sam didn't make a sound, didn't flinch. He hooked the sponge ball out of his captive's mouth and watched as he licked dry lips. Still Sam said nothing. The tension hung in the room, palpable and dangerous.

Moving the chair away, Griff started heading towards the door. Phase two was over.

"I don't care who you are." He stopped, turning his head when Sam spoke. His voice was quiet but hard. It was a tone the mercenary hadn't heard from the younger Winchester. He suppressed a smile that was almost proud which tried to rise when Sam finished, contradicting the chill that shivered down his spine.

"But when I find out, I'm gonna kill you."

oOo

 **A little shorter, but I really wanted the focus on Sam – lots of emotion going on!**

 **Please review!**


	11. No More

**Thank you for the reviews! Time to crank it up!**

oOo

 _"Seen it before, but not like this."_

 _\- Never Again, Nickelback_

oOo

"But when I find out, I'm gonna kill you."

Dean watched, a fierce sense of pride filling him. That was his little brother fighting back. It wasn't smack talk; he meant it. Dean knew that tone of voice and the relief at hearing it was almost overwhelming.

Sam still had fire – he wasn't totally broken.

The whole exchange with the man in the mask was completely bizarre and Dean was becoming less and less certain about what the hell was actually going on. In a twisted way, the man was…no. Dean wasn't even going to think it. It was too screwed up. Instead he focused on what would happen.

Together, the brothers would rip their captor apart.

The door behind him opened with a squeal. Dean looked up, a satisfied smirk colouring his eyes. The guy didn't know how much shit he was in.

Griffin looked down at Dean, his eyebrows arching beneath the mask at the elder Winchester's expression. It was one of the first times he'd seen Dean without a scowl or a glare waiting for him. Both Ketch and the mercenary had expected Dean to recognise the shift in Sam's demeanour. It was part of why Ketch had sent him in to see the brother. Griff stood opposite Dean, to the left of the television screen, leaning back nonchalantly against the wall with his arms crossed.

"He's not out of the woods yet," Griff remarked simply, watching Dean carefully, "hell, he's still deep in it, but at least that's progress."

Dean blinked, confused, the glint snuffing out in his eyes. Griff watched him shift in his chair. He wasn't surprised; he was probably beyond uncomfortable. When he put the hunter under later on, he'd move him for a while.

"I'm guessing not a lot of this is making much sense," Griff continued, "and I get that you're pissed – I would be too – but this is all for the good of your brother."

Dean grunted, rolling his eyes. It was bullshit – it was never anything else. He kept looking from his captor to the television screen, checking on Sam constantly. No one else was in the room with him and he hadn't moved, hadn't made a sound since the man in the mask had left. Dean's suspicions about who he was were slowly slipping off their foundations. No one else was ever present nor mentioned and Dean knew he didn't recognise the man's voice. He _knew_ things though – he had to have a connection with someone who knew Thomas. The most obvious culprit was Ketch and Dean was going to take a lot of pleasure in finding out if he had anything to do with this.

"I know you've been following Sam, thinking that eventually he'd come back to you once he'd worked everything out. Thing is, he wasn't going to. Your brother has been conditioned, Dean, to an extremity that I've rarely seen. This whole process – cruel as you might think it is – is designed to replicate and then counter what Thomas did to Sam," the man explained and, while Dean didn't want to hear it, he didn't have a choice. The man moved away from the wall, walking behind him again, but he continued to talk. "You're here because you're in denial. You haven't accepted _fully_ what happened to Sam and you think you can save him. He doesn't need that, Dean. He has to be able to save himself." Dean heard a small box being snapped closed. "He's been so long without control that until he has it back, he'll never start being the man he was. I'm trying to help him get there." Dean growled when he felt a scratch on the back of his neck again, the familiar wooziness descending over him even as he tried to fight it. His captor's words washed over him as consciousness began to fade.

"You might not like it, but this is for your own good too."

oOo

Ketch listened as Griff spoke to Dean, his fingers sweeping over the laptop. He was satisfied with the progress they were making and Markham had been pleased with his latest report. Granted, it omitted nearly every detail that actually counted for something, but that was a moot point. Griff was proving a most valuable asset. The Man of Letters was considering offering him a permanent contract in his team back home – long after this had all finished. The mercenary didn't realise just how much protection he would need once their plan had come to fruition. That was a minor detail that Ketch would deal with later.

A loud buzz reverberated around the room, his phone edging across the table. He checked the caller display and the time: 5.50am. Ketch ran a hand over his face and cleared his throat.

"Jody, are you alright?" he asked, purposely making his voice gruff and sleep-heavy.

"Sorry, did I wake you?" The sheriff was clearly wide awake and her tone was tinged with panic.

"It's alright; my alarm was going to go off soon anyway. What's the matter?"

"I can't get hold of Dean. I've tried calling him since last night and he won't pick up. Something's wrong," Jody replied, her distress rippling down the phone. Ketch swapped the phone to his other ear and leaned back in the chair.

"Could he have gone after Sam?"

"I don't know. Even if he did, he would've called back by now."

"Are you at home still?"

"Yeah."

"I'll be over as soon as I can. Keep trying him in the meantime; I'll be half an hour at most," Ketch assured her smoothly, his deception rolling off his tongue like butter. Jody thanked him and he hung up, propping the phone against his chin thoughtfully. He'd expected Jody to begin worrying sometime around now so her call was far from a surprise. In fact, it was a welcome occurrence that would further cement his ruse as innocent in this whole debacle. How could he have had anything to do with it when he was helping Jody constantly? Right from the beginning, Ketch had known that he'd need to build a strong set of alibis to keep Dean off his scent. The positive side of keeping both brothers captive and routinely sedating them was that they had no semblance of time and its passing. That could only continue to benefit his cause.

They were close; he could feel it.

oOo

Sunlight glinted off the river, sparking across its surface in soft luminous glows that edged and swayed as the water rippled lazily. The banks flowed softly down into the water, peppered with green that was a shade brighter than normal. Dean sat in the shade of a broad oak, his back pressed against the solid trunk of the tree. The Impala stood behind it, dormant but there: the comfort of home always offered on the fringe of his awareness. The cool box sat on his right, the lid down as he rested one arm on it, his beer cupped in his hand, sitting on the hard surface as he stared out across the water.

There weren't enough of these kinds of days anymore.

Dean knew he shouldn't be relaxing, that there was something he was meant to do but he was just too comfortable to move. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew none of it was real – it was a dream and he couldn't fix anything in his sleep so there was no point in trying.

A stone kicked off to his left, landing with a gentle plop into the water. Dean turned his head and looked up, giving Castiel a relaxed half grin as he walked up.

"Didn't think you'd show up here," he remarked, taking a swig of his beer as the angel reached him. Cas' brow was furrowed and he exuded a sense of urgency that Dean simply didn't feel. He patted the large tree root beside him. "Beer?" he offered as Cas took a seat. The angel shook his head.

"Dean, we need to talk."

"You make it sound like a big bad's comin'," Dean replied, swirling his beer in small circles. Clouds, heavy and dark, rose up slowly from behind the treetops on the opposite side of the lake.

"You do realise this is a dream, don't you?" Cas asked, watching the Winchester curiously.

"Yeah – one that I was enjoyin'," the hunter grumbled, unease beginning to form. "You don't usually show up either – not that I mind – but why're you here, Cas?"

"I can't find you," the angel answered, his frown deep and concerned.

"What do you mean?"

"In the real world, _I can't find you,_ " Cas growled, agitated. "You've disappeared and I need you to tell me where you are."

Dean frowned, emerald eyes watching the approaching clouds. They sagged, heavy and dark, full of threats. He stretched his mind, opening it like a muscle and felt the pieces tumble in as the memory of his waking nightmare tumbled in. His gaze snapped up to Cas as he stood up, beer falling to the ground, leaking amber liquid into the grass.

"You were meant to contact me if somethin' happened with Sam," he stated, the words accusatory, but his tone wasn't.

"I was checking on him, but I got side-tracked with a particular piece of research. I thought it was only for a few hours, but it was over a day. When I went to check on Sam, I couldn't see him anymore. I tried calling you but you haven't answered your phone in over a day. I came back to the bunker and you're not here. Where are you?"

"I…I don't know," Dean hesitated, his eyes flickering as he tried to remember. All he knew was the dark room. His eyes snapped up to meet Cas'. "I'm with Sam. Some guy's taken us both – I'm in a room watchin' Sammy on a TV screen."

"Why?" Cas asked incredulously. Dean searched his memory, annoyed at how fleeting the details were in his sleep. He'd grasp at one only to have it slip away again. The clouds rolled across, blocking the sunlight as the lake turned dark.

"He said…shit, what was it…," he rubbed a hand back through his hair, feeling consciousness beginning to tug on his awareness. "He says he's helpin' Sam. That I need to see it because I can't save him. I don't know what he's gonna do, Cas, and I don't know how we're gonna get out of it."

Cas looked up at the sky.

"We haven't got much time – you're going to wake up soon – but the only reason I can't see Sam is because wherever you are has been warded against angels. I'll call Jody and Ketch. We'll find you, Dean," the angel assured him, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

"Hurry, Cas; I don't know how much more Sam can take," Dean murmured, unsure of how much more _he_ could. The angel nodded, disappearing as the world began to fade to black.

oOo

"Stop it!" It came out as a gasp, a plea. Gone was the defiant, simmering anger of earlier, forgotten almost immediately. The tinkling, dribbling sound splashed around the room in hard splatters.

"It's only water, Sam."

It wasn't though and they both knew it. Sam hated the fear licking up every nerve at every drop which reached his ears. Behind the blindfold, it was all he could focus on. He gasped for breath, already feeling smothered, the ghost of a cloth pressing over his face, choking him. The weight settled, invisible and heavy, over him. Still the trickling continued.

"What did Thomas say when you reacted to it?"

Fear blocked his memories, made it hard to think. He could barely breathe let alone answer. The dripping continued, breaking the silence Sam couldn't.

"Do I need to use force?"

A whimper bubbled out of his throat and he clamped his mouth shut, shaking his head vehemently. The cold of the mattress bit into the back of his head. The dripping continued, but footsteps clipped on the floor. White-hot fear flashed behind his eyes at the sound.

"Nothing!" he blurted out, fists clenching, his fingernails digging into his palms. The footsteps stopped. The water trickled on.

"Thomas never addressed your fear – your _actual_ fears. He just played on the ones he implanted in you," the man continued, talking over the dripping, making it hard to concentrate on what he was saying. "He made you fear the real world and everything it in. You're afraid because this is real, Sam. If it wasn't, surely you could've changed things by now? Thought yourself out of this whole scene. _You're meant to be stronger than this._ "

"It's not my fault." It was a choked whisper, so quiet that Griff nearly missed it under the sound of the water. He dunked the sponge again and lifted it up, squeezing slowly. The kid needed to be able to talk around the sound; he needed to normalise it if he was going to be able to ever shower again without having to go through hours of psyching himself up.

"Maybe we should blame your brother. He's the one that couldn't find you, that didn't try hard enough."

"Don't you _dare_ say that about Dean." This time it wasn't a whisper. It was a hard growl, almost like it was involuntary – an ingrained mechanism to defend his brother whenever someone disputed his intentions. Maybe it was, Griff mused. Either way, the fact that Sam was getting quick to anger was another good sign working in their favour.

"Tell me who is to blame, then." Griff waited, still playing with the water but the air around him was almost crackling with tension.

"It's _your_ fault," Sam hissed, blood roaring in his ears, drowning out the water as bitter frustration welled into anger. He could feel the pressure building in his chest and he exhaled it as a roar, the dam bursting wide open. "It's _yours_ and Toni's and Thomas' and Anna's. Screw all of you! They made me this way! How the hell would you survive for _months_ of torture, being lied to every time someone said anything to you until you didn't know what the fuck is real anymore?! Screw you! Screw all of you. It's not my fault. It's not."

The last few words came out as choked sobs and Sam couldn't help it. Tears welled hot and slid from the corners of his eyes, dribbling down the sides of his face. He was so damned tired of being someone else's puppet. Their chew toy.

No more.

Silence hung heavy, punctuating the air with a stifling sense of foreboding that Sam could almost taste.

"We'll see how much you mean that," the man said smoothly, the water finally stopping. The chair scraped. "Our next session is really gonna test you. You think Toni had harsh methods? Wait and see, Sam. We're only just getting started because _I'm never going to let you go_."

The door clicked shut and Sam was left, his breath heaving as the heaviness of his captor's words settled over him, suffocating him. The panic rose and he was _so sick of it_.

 _Change it._

The voice made him stop, the panic pausing in its climb. It was his own voice, but a tone his hadn't heard in so long.

His hunter voice: full of authority and self-confidence. Things he'd left behind a long time ago.

 _Get out. If you don't, you'll never leave. You don't want this. Change it._

It sounded almost…foreign and a laugh nearly bubbled in Sam's throat but it didn't quite make it out. Yet, he didn't discredit it; he couldn't. It was not a voice to be ignored and as it rumbled through his mind, he felt the panic subside just enough for him to clear his mind.

 _Good. What do you need? What's different?_

It was almost ludicrous, listening to his own voice talking to him in his head – hell he didn't even want to think about how screwed up that made him – but if it was going to help, Sam didn't care. He lay there, listening, trying to concentrate. The 'different' struck him like a bolt.

The door.

It hadn't locked. It had clicked shut, but, every other time, he'd heard the clunk of the bolt hitting home. The man _hadn't locked it_. For the first time, in a long, long time, something akin to hope fluttered in Sam's chest. If he could get out, he could run; he could find answers.

No…he couldn't jump the gun yet. Get out first. Think about everything else later. He took a deep breath and tugged on both wrists.

oOo

Dean watched his brother, fascinated. Something was different; something had changed. He'd come to during Sam's latest 'session', livid with their captor as he trickled water into a bowl, deliberately agitating Sam. But then – finally – he'd left and Sam had gone completely still. So had Dean's heart. What if Sam had given up entirely? Dean couldn't blame him. His baby brother was beyond broken and this sure as hell wasn't helping. Inwardly, Dean just prayed that Sam hadn't – he wasn't sure he could take it if he had.

Then Sam had started wriggling.

Only his arms, but it wasn't the frantic tugging and bucking that was full of panic like before. This was…calculated. Methodical. Almost – _almost_ – like the old Sam. He'd twist one way, then the other, slowly but with determination. Dean knew exactly what he was doing and he silently rooted for his brother. Sam could do this.

He had to.

oOo

Sweat pooled on his forehead, prickling into his hairline, but Sam wasn't giving up. He'd tried both wrists, finding his right cuff was looser than his left. It wasn't by much, but if he kept trying, he could get it off. It had felt like hours, but slowly he was getting somewhere; he'd worked his thumb into his palm, squeezing his fingers together and twisting and pulling until the soft medical strap was caught around his palm, just below his knuckles.

 _Do it._

He tugged once, hard. And let a laugh of triumph snap from his throat in a single coarse bark when his hand slipped out. Reaching up, Sam yanked the blindfold off, feeling a weight lift from his shoulders as light crashed in through his eyelids. He could do this. He could win.

oOo

Griffin watched the monitor closely, satisfied as he watched Sam pull off the first restraint and the blindfold. It's what he'd been waiting for. The truth was, he hadn't had another 'session' planned – not one that was worse than what had already been done to the Winchester, but in the couple of days they'd spent together, Sam had become incredibly easy to read. The second angry outburst had proved he was ready. At least, the mercenary had been mostly certain he was. There was always the chance that it could backfire. It wasn't likely though – he wasn't a gambling man.

Now, his hunch was paying off. Taking out his phone, Griff typed a quick message to Ketch, already beginning to plan ahead.

 _Package is ready for dispatch._

His time with the Winchesters was coming to an end.

oOo

Once the light had stopped making his eyes water, Sam blinked rapidly, sitting up on the bed and reaching for the cuff around his left arm. Within moments it was off, swiftly followed by the ones around his ankles.

He was free.

Never again would he be held down, controlled. No more. The relief was so strong, he nearly sobbed, but he held it back. Now wasn't the time. He could be relieved later when he was out of this hellhole. Looking around, Sam took in the room. It was simple, bare, except for the bed he was sat on, a wooden chair and a small table with a bowl of water and a sponge floating in it. There was nothing that he could even consider using as a weapon.

 _Doesn't matter. Avoid the fight – just get out._

The hunter was right; he was in no condition to fight anyone off, let alone the man who'd grabbed him. Stealth was going to have to be his play. Scooting off the bed, Sam let his legs dangle before planting both feet down, almost expecting some kind of alarm to go off. Nothing happened. He waited longer than necessary before pushing off the bed with both hands, his gaze set on the door.

Quietly, he padded over to it, taking each step slowly, carefully. He got to the door and stopped, holding his breath to listen. Silence greeted him. Edging closer, Sam pressed his ear to the metal, listening with hard concentration. Still nothing.

Furtively, he grasped the handle, biting his lip as he pressed down and felt it give under his touch. It creaked – he knew that – so he pulled gently, his free hand clenched into a fist. Through the crack, there was nothing but a dim glow of a fading light, leaving the corridor in near darkness. There was no one there. Sam opened it just enough to be able to slip through, silently thankful that its creaking hinges stayed silent as he stepped into the gloom beyond. The door shut with a muted click behind him.

The hunter in him urged him to stop, to wait. The seconds rolled by but no sound reached his straining ears. Ahead, he could see a bend in the corridor with another door set off to the right opposite it. His gaze rolled down; there was no light beneath the door. It was clearly a warehouse – more specifically the office section of one – which meant that there would be an entrance to the main building but also a side one to the outside.

Each step was measured and controlled as he moved forward, every muscle tensed, rippling energy up and down his back. His right hook was permanently clenched while his left hand was splayed against the wall, letting it guide him. Still silence reigned: the Winchester didn't know if that was a blessing or a curse.

The bend in the corridor loomed and he stopped, crouching low. Listened again. Holding his breath, Sam waited a few moments before drumming up the courage to swing around. It was empty and he let the breath out in a controlled whoosh that slowed his tripping heart. More doors lined either side, but they were interior ones – they wouldn't help him – and he wasn't looking to confront his captor. Not yet. He needed to get out and regroup first. The threat he'd made still rang true, but he wasn't ready and he'd die before he let them take him again. Further down the corridor, he could see a bright light in the murkiness. Lightly, he jogged forwards, still keeping his steps quiet and his ears straining. Grey eyes fixed on the light ahead and his heart pumped faster. Its glow rose up, illuminating a metal door that ran across the centre of the door.

A fire door.

Sam almost slipped to a stop in front of it, his hands resting on the cold metal. This was it. If he pressed down, it would probably set off an alarm. The man would know he'd got out.

 _This is your one shot._

The hunter was right. He couldn't waste it. Now or never. He just had to be fast. Sucking in a huge breath, Sam steadied his hands and steeled his spine. He was ready.

Giving the bar an almighty push, Sam sprinted out into the sunlight, leaving the darkness in his wake.

oOo

 **Is our Sammy as safe as he thinks? Please review!**


	12. Ain't No Goin' Back

**I suck at the moment and I'm so sorry! The real world is keeping me way too busy and I don't like it :( I may start having to do shorter chapters to try and make sure I can upload a bit more regularly!**

oOo

 _"And damn it, he's a fast one_

 _Out of the trees, into the swamp_

 _Gotta be free, so don't ever stop."_

 _\- For the River, Nickelback_

oOo

 **Outskirts of Lennox, South Dakota**

Dean didn't know whether to be relieved or give into a new wave of panic. Sammy had got out: he'd fought back. He wasn't sure how much time had passed since he'd watched his brother sneak out of the unlocked door, but it had to have been at least an hour. And Sam hadn't come back: either voluntarily or by force.

He must've escaped. The thought brought a whole new level of panic.

Sam had been through hell – _again_ – and was now out with no idea where he was. Alone, isolated and probably scared. All Dean wanted to do was go after him, but, try as he might, he couldn't get his own bonds to shift.

Which got him thinking.

The masked man had gone to an insane level of effort to make sure that Dean wasn't going anywhere. He'd barely been able to move a muscle for the whole time he'd been trapped in the chair. And yet, he'd been careless enough to let Sam slip a strap, free himself and find the door unlocked? The more the hunter thought about it, the more ludicrous it sounded. There was no mistake, no 'accident'. Their captor had meant for Sam to escape. If this was some sick game where Sam escaped and then got caught again…Dean didn't care what he'd have to do. He'd get out and he'd rip the guy's throat out with his bare hands.

Sammy couldn't go through something like that again.

 _"Dean?"_

 _The hairs on the back of Dean's neck shot straight up as he bolted upright, back ramrod straight, eyes wide, mouth open._

 _"Sammy?!" he asked, incredulously. Jody and Cas' heads both snapped up and both were around the table in an instant. Dean heard his brother's sob and it broke his heart, his own eyes welling. "Are you okay?!"_

 _"Yeah – no – I don't know," Sam's reply was broken and tinny down the line. "I'm not hurt but my head…"_

The memory of Sam's last escape, when he'd got out of the farmhouse, sent a cold shiver across Dean's skin. Sam had sounded so…small. So lost. The memory still haunted the elder Winchester at night; it would be a long time before it didn't. It was just going to take a backseat after all the crap of the last few days, but it would still linger.

The door behind Dean creaked open and he turned his head, half hoping to see Sam standing there. His growl was muffled by the gag but his glower was full of malice as his captor stepped in.

"Looks like our time together's done," he said matter-of-factly, making the fire drop from Dean's eyes, confusion settling in them instead. Fabric fluttered and snapped, the hunter giving a surprised grunt as the world went dark. He shook his head angrily, but his captor ignored him, pulling the bag around his neck, making it secure but not overly tight. One by one, Dean felt the straps holding him down loosen and fall away, followed by the rattle and clink of the chain around his handcuffs. Two iron-tight hands latched like vices around his biceps.

"Up you come." He was hauled up, knees cracking as they straightened and Dean nearly toppled over, only staying upright because of the guy's grip. "Just stand for a minute; it'll pass." Dean wanted nothing more than to kick out and do some damage, but the tremble in his legs, which had done nothing for days, extinguished any such plan; he could barely stay upright and the feeling was not a pleasant one.

Minutes passed, the guy allowing him time to adjust without reprimand, yet another weird behaviour that Dean just couldn't explain. Eventually, he was prodded forwards, but walking felt strange and each step was a wobble, with his knees involuntarily giving out every few steps. His captor kept a firm grip on his right arm, mainly to hold him up rather than stop him from escaping. The whole situation was ridiculous and Dean was almost glad he had the hood over his head so that no one could see his face heat with embarrassment.

Progress was slow and his breathing was laboured inside the stuffy material, but Dean could feel the change in the air as it whisked around his hands. A car door clicked and he was shoved face first into the backseat once again. Before he had time to react, he felt a heavy weight spread across his back, holding him down as something scratched the back of his neck. Dean moaned as he felt the grogginess spread through him, slackening his muscles until the weight was removed and he drifted into darkness.

oOo

 **SD-44W, Outskirts of Lennox, South Dakota**

The sun was beginning to set, sending a warm auburn glow shooting across the sky in fierce tendrils that darted between the stray wisps of clouds. It was dipping below the horizon, casting a warmth that went deeper than skin yet didn't blind those who stopped to admire its wonder. The line of trees ahead was blackened beneath its luminosity, the occasion bird swooping into its safety; another black dart on the canvas of fire.

Sam's feet were killing him and his knees were scraped and torn. He'd run for miles, first through forest and then fields, just aiming to put as much distance between himself and the warehouse as he could. He'd tripped and fallen more times than he could count, but, each time, he'd picked himself up and moved on. He hadn't let himself stop; there was no stopping. After what could have been hours, he'd finally slowed, hitting a tarmacked road that was cracked along its edges and quiet except for a few stray cars and trucks. He stayed off its edge, choosing to hike on the other side of the farmland fences. After the first few that had stormed past, Sam had stopped feeling the overpowering urge to bolt, letting it settle into flinches and finally just a quickening thump of his heart. None of the vehicles had stopped; no one had shouted at him or come after him. While he didn't feel…safe, Sam let himself relax just a little.

He'd escaped. He'd won.

It was a victory that no one was going to take from him and, right now, it was the only thing driving him forward. His tongue felt woolly and swollen – he couldn't remember the last time he'd had a drink – and his stomach squeezed itself painfully.

Sam gave a surprised yelp, crashing to the ground his foot twisting beneath him. He landed heavily on his side, jarring his elbow against a rock that jutted out of the dirt. Glancing down, he saw the hole that he'd stepped straight into, making his foot buckle painfully. Exhausted, he collapsed backwards onto the ground, staring up at the sky, groaning as he straightened his leg and felt his ankle flare with agony.

 _It's just a sprain, not a break. It'll be fine._

The Winchester found himself nodding to no one in particular, knowing that the hunter was right. There was a profound sense of comfort in hearing it. It was his own voice but one that he'd thought was lost. There were still hunter instincts inside him; they hadn't gone. Right now, they were pushing him forwards, keeping him going straight.

Turning his head, Sam looked over towards where he'd been heading. To the left of the line of trees, cloaked in partial shadows, he could make out the silhouettes of a few buildings dotted along the horizon. They were squat and clustered together – definitely not a town – but the way they were grouped suggested it was a farm. His throat tightened.

 _It's not the same farm. It can't be. And you_ need _somewhere to crash._

Above, the sky was turning purple as the sun sank and Sam knew the voice was right. He couldn't stay out in the middle of nowhere; it wasn't safe and he couldn't protect himself. Scooting upright, he hissed with pain when he put his weight down on his left foot. He pushed through it as much as he could, limping forwards slowly.

By the time he reached the edge of the farm, darkness had settled and Sam's nerves were frayed. Every rustle, every animal cry, had jangled against his panic, leaving him beyond exhausted and fighting back tears. He felt stupid for it and was glad that no one around him could see him starting to lose it.

Now that the farmhouse was in view, he could see that it wasn't the same farm – it wasn't even close. The terrain was flat and it was clearly a working area with heavy machinery parked around the yard and lights glowing in the ground floor of the house. Sam hung back, wanting to crouch down but the angry sparks of pain in his ankle prevented him. Instead, he drifted along the edge of the light, watching the house carefully. He could see a family inside the dining room, sitting around a table, their expressions animated and cheerful even though he couldn't hear what was said. Loneliness panged through him, the deep-seated longing for his brother flaring up again, almost choking him. It took a few moments for him to fight back the tidal wave of anxiety that threatened to overtake him, but eventually he scanned the area outside of the house. There was no other movement.

Keeping to the shadows, Sam edged around the house, heading towards the barns, wishing he had a flashlight. His foot splashed as he moved alongside one wall and he looked down, just about able to make out a small puddle on the ground. It hadn't rained all day. Trailing his fingers along the wall, Sam jumped when they brushed cold metal. Turning his head, he listened carefully. Heard nothing. Gripping the faucet, he turned it, letting loose a quiet steady stream of water. Ignoring his ankle, he crouched down, putting most of his weight on his other foot as he breathed in shakily, trying not to think about the sound of the water as he stuck his other hand under the flow, cupping it to catch a small puddle in his palm. He brought it up to his mouth and drank greedily, sticking his hand straight under again and again, relieving his parched tongue and cracked lips.

A fox barked in the distance and Sam shot upright, his heart thrumming until his brain register the sound. Turning the faucet off, he listened again but heard nothing. He limped along the side of the barn, fingers trailing the wooden sides as he searched for the door.

He found it around the corner; a small side door next to the huge double ones that the machinery could fit through. Placing his ear to the wood, he listened and heard nothing but silence. Twisting the handle, it opened easily and the gentle scent of hay drifted out. Slipping silently inside, Sam closed the door and waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. He could make out a mezzanine floor high above and several wooden pillars rising up on either side of the main floor. There were shelves on one side but he couldn't make out what was on them. Ahead, he could just about make out the neat stacks of hay piled up against the back wall, spreading to almost the centre of the barn. The Winchester limped forwards, feeling for the edge of the hay bales. They were soft beneath his fingertips and rose up like a giant colosseum of hay. He hauled himself up and forwards, moving deeper into the darkness. He climbed up six bales, crawling forwards when it flattened out.

His searching fingers found the twine holding the next bale on the flat surface in front of him. Gripping it, he hauled it up, sliding it out from the jigsaw and placing it behind him, repeating the movement with another three bales until he'd made a comfortable sized dip in the stacks. Sliding down into it, he sat down with his back against the remaining bales and his feet stretched ahead of him, utterly spent. He couldn't see the other side of the bales which meant no one would be able to see him unless they climbed up. He was safe.

Silence spread its warmth through the barn and Sam slowly let himself relax, the events of the last day finally sinking in. He stifled a sob, running his hands back through his hair, curling his fingers into fists as he let himself cry without a sound.

oOo

 **Lebanon, Kansas**

There was a faint tickle of something scuttling across the back of his hand, not enough to be anything harmful, but enough to bring awareness soaking back into Dean's consciousness. He felt his hand move off its own accord, batting away whatever was tickling it. Try as he might, he couldn't quite bring himself back to consciousness fully; the more he tried, the further it slipped from his grasp. Eventually he stopped trying and rode the waves that ebbed and flowed, waiting in a dreamless void that perched on the edge of reality. He wasn't comfortable, that much he did know. His cheek was pressed down on something hard and itchy and his ribs ached where the ground beneath him was jutting up into his chest.

Finally, the void spat him out and Dean cracked his eyes open, blinking at the light that shot in. Reaching up, he rubbed at his eyes with his fingers, stopping after a moment and holding his hand in front of his face, eyes opening.

"What the hell?" he mumbled, eyebrows creasing.

The last thing he remembered was being shoved into the back of a car and a needle being stuck in his neck. He felt his face with the same hand, fingers brushing against stubble but there was nothing else there – no cloth, no gag. Groaning, he eased himself up, pushing off the ground with both hands and rolling himself over so that he was sat upright. The hunter stared down at his limbs; he was completely free. Confused, he finally lifted his gaze up and looked around, eyes widening in disbelief. Grass spread out in front of him, disappearing over a drop, a line of trees on the hill behind him. A dirt track was visible down the slope and the edges of bricks poked up through the grass.

"You gotta be kiddin' me," he growled in disbelief. He was sat on top of the bunker. Scrambling up, Dean almost fell, catching himself at the last moment when his legs wobbled beneath him. He felt faint, nauseous even, his stomach churning painfully. It had been days since he'd eaten anything and well over a day since his last drink. He was paying for it now.

Steadying himself, the Winchester clambered down the slope, ignoring the black spots dancing across his vision, threatening to blind him. Gravel crunched beneath his boots as he staggered across towards the door to the bunker, relieved to find it unlocked for once. It squeaked and groaned as he pulled the heavy metal open, releasing a warm whoosh of air that smelled of home, settling a sliver of calm over him instantly. It banged shut behind him as he heard footsteps slam up the stairs from below.

Castiel almost ran straight into him, his expression thunderous until he registered Dean in front of him. Blue eyes widened in shock.

"Dean?!" he exclaimed, the angel blade falling to his side. Dean gave him a weak half smile.

"Hey, Cas." The angel lurched forward, catching Dean as his legs gave out, crumpling beneath him.

"I've got you," Cas stated simply, hooking his friend's arm around the back of his neck and supporting him with his other arm around the hunter's waist.

"Dean!" Jody came barrelling up the stairs, eyes wide as Cas started towards the stairs. She slipped in on Dean's other side, wrapping his arm around her shoulders as well. Between them, they half-carried, half-dragged the Winchester down the stairs and into the library where Ketch stood, not moving from the table. They eased him down into the chair at the top of the table, Jody rushing off towards the kitchen.

"I'm alright," Dean mumbled, pushing Cas' hand away gently when the angel reached for his forehead with two fingers, "I'm just kinda woozy."

"Why're you woozy? Dean, when did you get here? How?" Cas asked, his brow furrowed as he perched on the edge of the table.

"I don't know," Dean replied, wiping a hand over his face. Jody rushed back in, a water bottle in one hand and a chocolate bar in the other. She snapped the lid off the bottle and pressed it into Dean's hands. He took long, deep mouthfuls, ignoring the sheriff's chides to take it slow as she unwrapped the candy bar. The water ran through his torso, bringing life back to his insides as it settled into his empty stomach. Within seconds, the bottle was empty, the plastic cracking as he squeezed it. Jody took it from him and pressed the bar into his hand.

"What's the last thing you remember?" Cas asked as Dean bit into the chocolate, his eyelids drooping as he chewed.

"Sam got out. He escaped."

The statement hung in the air as he swallowed, the other three looking at him with a mixture of confusion and disbelief.

"Are you sure?" Dean turned his gaze to Ketch, his eyes narrowing. The Englishman had the right mix of curiosity and shock – given the way he usually was – but Dean still wasn't convinced that he didn't have a hand in what had happened. But that was something he would deal with later.

"Pretty damned sure. The guy was weird about it. When Sam had gone, he said…" Dean stopped, his eyes lowering as he fought to remember through the fog encasing his memories. "He said somethin' like our time was up. He seemed almost kinda…impressed that Sammy had got out."

"Okay, start from the beginning – pretend like we don't know anythin'," Jody instructed, pulling up her seat. Cas had clearly filled her in following Dean's dream-meeting with him, but the details he'd given had been patchy at best. Biting off the final chunk of the bar, he chewed and swallowed before starting to talk.

oOo

 **SD-44W, Outskirts of Lennox, South Dakota**

Sam had cried quietly until he was spent, a throbbing headache settling in behind his eyes. He needed another drink but he was too afraid to leave the safety of the hay bales; he'd been lucky not to be spotted before. There was no way he was going to tempt fate by going out more than he needed to. Despite his exhaustion, his nerves were too wired to let him drift straight off into sleep. Alone in the semi-darkness, the youngest Winchester found he had too much time to think. He twizzled a stray strand of hay between his fingers, almost marvelling at the feel of it.

 _"He made you fear the real world and everything it in. You're afraid because this is real, Sam. If it wasn't, surely you could've changed things by now? Thought yourself out of this whole scene."_

His mystery captor's words bubbled up as he played with the piece of hay and, for once, instead of shoving it back down, he forced himself to consider what he'd said. He should have been able to change details – small ones, at least – if it was all in his mind; it was still his mind in the end. Yet Lucifer held inconceivable power when he was in any normal meatsuit – Sam couldn't even begin to fathom how powerful he could be inside his true vessel. He couldn't deny how the hay felt in his fingers, the way it prickled beneath him and rustled when he moved. Every last detail was complete and real. And yet, he had no idea whether it was a perfect replica built on memories or the real thing.

 _"Lucifer needs you tucked away, safe inside your subconscious, sheltered from outside influence."_

Thomas had told him that so long ago. Back then, Sam hadn't believed him; it had been too farcical. Yet, he'd worn the hunter down, erasing him, replacing him with the most vulnerable version of the Winchester. Sam had believed the Englishman, given in, because it was the only thing he could do.

What if he'd been wrong?

He dropped the piece of hay and ran a hand back through his hair. How the hell was he supposed to know what was real and what wasn't? He'd mistrusted everything since escaping Thomas and, so far, few things had proven the Englishman wrong.

 _"You need proof, Sam, that this is real. That you're not living in a fantasy world in your head. You need someone you could go to – someone that Lucifer would never consider – to get your answers. To get your proof. There has to be someone that you could go to for that."_

His captor had been right – proof was exactly what he needed. The problem was, he couldn't think of anyone that he could go to who could give it to him. It was a catch-22; if he couldn't think of that type of person, Lucifer couldn't consider it, but without being able to think of them…

God, his head hurt.

The throbbing behind his eyes pulsed harder, easing slightly when he shut his eyes. All he needed was one name. One person. Someone he could trust. But trust had hardly been a winning Winchester attribute even before all of this had happened. Now, Sam wasn't even sure he would ever be able to put his faith in anyone again.

Slowly, his body relaxed, finally giving in to the exhaustion that had been tugging on his consciousness for hours. Within minutes, Sam was asleep, his dreams calm for the first time in a long time as his subconscious pulled up a face, one he hadn't seen for years, one that he knew he could get answers from. It comforted him, spoke to him softly, easing his worry. The darkness pulled and he stayed safe in the dream, hidden and alone, undisturbed in the waking world.

oOo

 **I promise I will try to update as quickly as I can! Please review and let me know your thoughts (I'd love to know who you think Sam might go to!)**


	13. The Answer

**Thanks for all the reviews and it was really fun to see who you were all speculating over!**

oOo

 _"This will all be over soon_

 _Pour salt into the open wound."_

 _\- Breath, Breaking Benjamin_

oOo

 **Lebanon, Kansas**

"I don't trust him."

"Dean…" Jody sighed, pursing her lips when Dean's hardened emerald gaze bore into her own.

"Yeah, I know. He was with you and I get it, Jody, I do. And I do trust _you_ ," Dean explained, shoving the coffee pot back onto its holder before turning to face the sheriff. "But somethin' just ain't right. Who else could've known what happened? It's just too…convenient."

"Honey, I know you need to tear into someone, but that someone isn't Ketch. Not today anyway," Jody replied, her hand resting on his arm as he passed her a steaming mug with the other. She stared up at him, seeing beyond the stony exterior and the anger that creased the corners of his mouth to the hurt and the fear that tainted the back of his eyes. Years with her boys had taught her to see beyond the display of emotion both of them usually exhibited; their true feelings were always cloaked by a wall that few could scale. "Maybe later, once you know that Sam is okay, once we know that _you_ are okay."

"I'm fine," he retorted gruffly, his eyes sliding away. But he wasn't and it was painful to watch him holding himself together. They'd listened in horrified silence as he'd recounted what had happened, how Sam had suffered, how their mystery captor had seemingly let the younger Winchester escape. Through it all, the only thing he didn't tell them was how _he'd_ suffered. Jody hadn't expected him to; it would be later, in alcohol and violence, that he'd skim across the depths of his own feelings, but, even then, he wouldn't truly acknowledge them.

That wouldn't even happen until long after Sam was safe.

"Yeah, you keep tellin' yourself that," Jody chided not unkindly. "Eventually we're gonna have to deal with what happened to both of you and whether Ketch had any kind of involvement _and_ findin' where the other guy has run off to, but first we need to get our heads around what he was doing to Sam."

Dean slumped down onto the metal bench, not wanting to go out to the library where he knew Ketch was lurking. Cas appeared in the door as he grabbed a strip of beef jerky from an open packet that lay on the table. After being starved for days, he was constantly hungry. He bit into the tough meat and chewed slowly, the bite of chilli lingering across his tongue as the lime smoothed over it.

"Like I said, he talked a lot about conditionin', makin' Sam repeat things that Thomas had done," Dean's brow crinkled as he thought back. "He'd say stuff like 'does that sound like help?' or 'you wanted this'. Sometimes he was just provokin' Sam, but others…it was almost like he was actin' like some sorta shrink. I'm tellin' you, Jody, it was weird."

"You're not going to like it Dean, but it does sound like he was trying to help," Cas offered, unfazed when Dean stopped chewing, a threatening scowl burning straight at him.

"Yeah because puttin' Sam through all the shit he's gone through before is a real big help!"

"I'm not condoning what happened, Dean, far from it, but look at the evidence. Sam was taken, held against his will – again – before the actions were compared to his time with both Thomas and Toni. He's then allowed to escape. In a perverse way, it has potentially helped more than we ever could."

"How the fuck can you say that?!" Dean growled, anger rolling off him in waves as he stood, fists clenched

"Dean, go easy on him; Cas doesn't mean it how you think," Jody intervened, patting his chest as she stood between the two men. "There have been known cases where victims of programming have been put through similar experiences to what they were originally subjected to in order to 'break' the conditioning that's been done to them. Sam's been a complete mess for months and Cas is kinda right: I don't know what we could've done that would've brought him round." She held up a hand when Dean made to interrupt. "I am NOT sayin' that I agree with it – not in the slightest – but it's happened and we've got to deal with what happens next. If we're lucky, maybe it has done some kind of good."

The hunter hated it, but he remained silent, his jaw clenching so hard that his teeth ached. He wasn't going to agree with them. Putting Sam through hell was never going to be a good thing and watching it first-hand had been more than he could stand. He wanted nothing more than to find a bottle of whiskey and drown himself in it, but he couldn't. They needed to find Sam.

Dean needed to make things okay.

"What do you want to do next?" Jody prompted gently, watching Dean carefully as the anger dissipated behind a screen that he drew down like a shutter in his eyes.

"Honestly? I have no idea," he murmured, his tone exhausted but she knew it wasn't for a lack of sleep. They were all tired of chasing and getting nowhere. "Cas can track him, but I don't know what goin' after Sam would get us at the moment. He didn't even know I was there with him."

"So maybe we don't follow him for a few days," Jody offered, flicking a worried glance up at Castiel who met her gaze for gaze without Dean seeing. "Cas can monitor him. This has to end sometime though. Think, Dean, did anything happen that could give you even a clue as to where Sam would go next?"

He was silent for so long that she almost thought he wasn't going to answer, but she was patient, staring at green eyes that flickered and searched the floor as he thought back.

"Hell, I dunno. The guy said somethin' about findin' someone Sam could trust – someone Lucifer wouldn't think of – but I can't even guess at who that could be. Maybe that got through to him. Maybe he'll try to find them. If he was actin' like normal, he would, but I just don't know anymore."

And that was what killed Dean inside every time he thought it. He no longer felt like he knew his brother. The walls pressed in around him and suddenly it was all too closed in, too much. Lurching to his feet, Dean stalked out, heading to the garage.

oOo

 **Coleridge, Nebraska**

The sun shone balefully down on the deserted main street, glinting off the windows in bright flashes but the temperature failed to rise more than a few degrees despite the glare. Autumn was creeping its way in, the warmth of summer waning. The locals milled about idly, coats wrapped around torsos, arms crossed against the sharp bite of wind that swept through in bursts.

The GMC Sierra bounced and jolted as it slowed, pulling into an empty parking in the shade next to the Rodeo Bar and Grill. The engine was cut and the driver's door swung open, a tall, lean man with blonde hair jumping out. He waved as a local hollered his name, a broad smile flashing white teeth as he headed into the bar, not bothering to lock his truck.

Sam lay in the bed, hidden beneath the black tarpaulin that covered the back of the pick-up. It was dim, but enough light soaked in through the edges to allow him to see. The Winchester lay on his back, listening hard, catching his breath.

After a freezing night in the barn, he'd snuck out at dawn, heading for the trucks near the farmhouse. He'd been trying to hotwire one, with trembling fingers that were too numb to work properly, when voices had rung out and he'd panicked, slipping straight out of the cab and crouching beside the car. There had been nowhere to go; not without being seen so he'd hauled himself into the bed of the GMC and pulled the tarpaulin over it, planning to hide until the voices had gone. What he hadn't counted on was one of the voices heading his way and _starting_ the truck. Before he could even think about scrambling out of it, it was bouncing across the dirt track and roaring out onto the road. All he could do was wedge himself sideways and hold on. Luckily, the bed had been empty, but it had been a far from comfortable ride.

 _You can't stay here. Move._

The hunter's voice cajoled him, the tone urgent and forceful. It was right; he had no idea when the owner would be back and he couldn't risk being found inside. Reaching out a hand, Sam unhooked the edge of the tarpaulin and peeked his head up carefully, keeping low. Looking around, he couldn't see anyone except for a woman walking a dog in the distance on the other side of the road, her phone pressed to her ear.

 _Now or never._

Gripping the edge of the truck, Sam pulled himself up and out, landing in a crouch, nearly stumbling over, before he took off at a run, heading for the nearest side street beside the bar. Dumpsters lined one side and grass grew along the side of the other building, dust kicking up beneath his feet. He skidded to a stop at the end of the dumpsters and crouched down again, his back against the wall, chest heaving. Blood roared in his ears and he struggled to get his breath back, spots floating around in his vision. He was too high-strung and running on empty; he couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten anything. There had been nothing in the barn and he had nothing on him to pay for anything – not that he had the nerve to try and go into a store.

Sam smacked his head back in frustration, barely registering the pain when his head connected with the brick wall. He couldn't keep living like this – terrified of towns, of people, constantly on the run. It wasn't living.

 _Get to her. You'll get your answers._

He hoped. God, Sam had never hoped for anything more. Exhaling slowly, he pulled himself back together as much as he could and looked further down the street. A line of battered cars stood off to one side, all vacant and out of sight of the other streets. Pushing himself up, Sam jogged over to them, looking for any cameras mounted on the walls, any other pedestrians. He tried the handle of the first car, then the second and the third. All were locked, but the fourth – a beaten 1987 Camaro with more rust than paint – gave under his touch. Sliding in, Sam shoved a bunch of fast food wrappers off the driver's seat onto the passenger one, his eyes alighting on a stray foil packet that was too perfectly formed to be empty. Grabbing it, Sam actually laughed in delight at the chocolate bar's weight in his hand. Ripping it open, the Winchester shoved it into his mouth, tearing off a huge bite and groaning in ecstasy, his stomach growling its approval. He savoured it for a few starving moments, snapping off another bite before balancing it in his lap and reaching under the steering column for the wires he needed. It took a few goes, but, finally, the engine sparked to life, snarling in the silent street. Shoving the rest of the bar in his mouth, Sam jerked the gear shift into drive and put his foot down.

If he pushed hard enough, he could make it before dark.

oOo

 **Lebanon, Kansas**

Dean threw the grubby sponge back in the bucket of equally filthy water, some of the remaining bubbles slopping out onto the floor. He bent down and swiped up the hose, compressing the trigger to unleash a stream of water onto the Impala. He felt less boxed in in the confines of the bunker's garage than the rest of it. Anywhere that Ketch wasn't, if he was honest with himself. It wasn't rational and he had no evidence to go on, but Dean had always trusted his gut. And, currently, his gut was telling him to beat the living hell out of the Englishman until he admitted what he'd done.

The water blasted over the windshield.

If he'd been able to, Dean would've gone for a drive, left to clear his head. Vent his frustration in a bottle and some girl who wouldn't care if it was only for one night. But he couldn't. He needed to stay, to wait. For what, he wasn't sure, but that was the other thing his gut was telling him. Something had to change soon and something was going to. Getting drunk today, tonight, was the worst thing he could do but he just didn't know why. Instead, he saw to Baby, took care of his beloved car because it was the only thing he _could_ take care of.

The hunter wasn't sure he could ever express how much he hated playing the waiting game. It felt like it was all he'd done ever since Sam had been taken all those months ago. Even when he'd got his brother back, it hadn't been right.

Maybe it never would be.

Dean shoved that thought down angrily, his lip curling into a snarl. Things would get better; Sam would be home one day and then they would be out hunting. Saving others again. That was all he wanted and he _would_ make it happen or die trying.

For now though, he had to muster patience from somewhere because his instincts were in overdrive and that was something he trusted.

Change was coming and he was waiting for it.

oOo

 **Lawrence, Kansas**

The road was quiet and dark, glowing lights seeping out into the black beyond, elongating the shadows that crept across the trimmed front lawns. Most of the road's curtains were closing and the neighbourhood had fallen into a comfortable silence save for the pattering of the rain that had started to fall. A few cars were parked along either side of the street, all dark and empty save one.

Sam stared up at the house, trying to pull his nerves together again. He'd been sat outside for two hours, unable to muster the courage to go in. Having driven off twice and come back, he knew he needed to do it. So far, nothing had attacked him, no one had said anything to him. The figure in the house he was watching had bustled around, going about her business, paying him no heed.

 _Grow a pair for God's sake or leave. Do something!_

The hunter barked at him and Sam knew the voice was right. He needed to make some sort of move. His fraying nerves wanted him to reach for the ignition, fire up the car and go, but, deep down, he knew that was never going to get him anywhere. He needed to face his fears, not run from them.

He'd escaped once. He needed to keep fighting.

Grasping the door handle, Sam pushed it open, raining splattering down onto his bare arm as the torrents grew heavier. The door banged shut behind him and he was running before he even realised it. His feet splashed through a puddle as he moved across the grass verge and stopped on the porch, sheltered from the rain which dripped from the bangs of his hair. Warmth radiated from the house while the rain cooled the air behind him. It wasn't just a physical heat: there was a promise of safety just beyond the door. It was feeling that was almost foreign.

Raising his hand, Sam paused, held his breath, and knocked quietly.

A shadow fell through the curtain on the other side of the glass door before the lock turned and it was pulled open cautiously, revealing Missouri Moseley's kind, yet concerned expression.

"Sam Winchester, I was startin' to think you weren't gonna knock at all. Come in, before you catch your death," she chided softly, her voice warm southern honey as she stood back and held the door open wide for him. Hesitating, Sam faltered. She smiled at him sadly. "It's alright, take your time, honey." Breathing out slowly, Sam took a step forward into the warmth of her home.

Inside it was just how he remembered; dark wood panelling lined the walls with an impressive staircase leading upstairs and the rain battering against the round window in the hall. The same bench that he's sat on with Dean as they'd waited for Missouri to finish with a client was still stood opposite the door, a blanket draped over one end. The warm aroma of jambalaya wafted around him, making him acutely aware of his hunger once more. The door clicked shut quietly behind him and Sam flinched, closing his eyes as he fought the urge to turn and bolt.

"C'mon, we can't be hangin' around in the hall all night," Missouri remarked, bustling past him, ignoring his reaction. Opening his eyes, Sam followed her, trailing behind her to the living room. He ducked under the beaded curtain that hung to one side, watching Missouri as she took a seat in the armchair opposite the sofa. It had been years since he'd set eyes on the psychic and she hadn't changed much. Grey had begun to thread its way into the edges of her hair in faint wisps and there were new laughter lines crinkling at the edges of her eyes. She gazed at him, her mouth downturned, but a look of knowing passed through her eyes as he sat on the sofa opposite.

"I'm so sorry, honey." She didn't even need to explain herself; of course she knew what had happened. He wasn't even sure why he doubted that she would.

"You're the only person I could think of that he wouldn't," Sam murmured quietly, rubbing his hands together, his thumb gliding over his left palm. Missouri nodded sagely but said nothing, letting the silence stretch comfortably. There was no rush, no attempt to push and, for that, Sam was grateful. As the minutes passed his nerves settled and a calmness that he hadn't felt in a long time slowly took hold. Lifting his eyes, he scrutinised Missouri carefully. "You knew I was outside."

Missouri's lips quirked. "I'd be a terrible psychic if I didn't."

"Why didn't you come out?"

"Because you didn't need me to. This is about _you_ , Sam, and what you need. Tell me what that is, honey," Missouri replied kindly, her tone turning more serious. Sam opened his mouth, but the air was sucked from his lungs, the question on the tip of his tongue. He closed his mouth again, fighting to breathe.

He didn't know what answer he wanted.

"Sam, you're safe here. I think you know that, deep down. But you gotta ask," the psychic pushed gently, her hands clasped together tightly in front of her. Sam's thumb dug deeper into his palm as he exhaled a shaky breath, eyes downcast.

"You once told me that people don't come here for the truth; they come here for good news," he whispered.

"Not today; not with you," she murmured back, her gaze fixed on his downturned head, staying on him as he lifted pained eyes to meet her. Her heart broke as she watched him struggle, knowing what he wanted, but he had to be able to say it. Without that step, none of this would count. She got up, walking around the small coffee table, taking a seat next to Sam, turning her body towards him. Tears welled, making the dark grey depths that spoke of the unspeakable horrors he'd faced swim in a pit of despair.

"Is this real?" Sam's voice cracked as the tears slid from the corners of his eyes, streaking down his cheeks. "Was I lied to?" Missouri reached out a tentative hand, cupping his cheek, wiping his tears with her thumb.

"Yes, Sam. You were," she nodded, her voice low and gentle. It was like damn exploded within him, unstoppable and violent. Sam's wail transformed into a high keening as Missouri pulled him into her arms, cradling his head in the crook of her neck. "I'm so sorry." She rocked him, stroking his hair as his world fell apart yet again.

She hoped to God he would be able to put himself back together one last time.

oOo

 **Lebanon, Kansas**

The evening was waning but still Dean hadn't touched a single one of the beer bottles that Jody had picked up from the store. He'd eaten because she's hovered until he had, but he was restless, edgy. He'd cleaned every car and motorcycle in the bunker's garage and tinkered with Baby's engine, watching the clock constantly as it moved painfully slowly, second by second. Energy hummed like static in his skin, keeping him wired. He couldn't have slept if he'd tried.

AC/DC thrummed around the armoury, playing from Dean's smaller set of speakers. His gun lay on the table in pieces, spread out on a square of green cloth, a small bottle of oil on his left next to a variety of brushes and cleaners as he worked over the weapon. It was the fifth gun he'd cleaned and the hunter had already decided that forging bullets was next on his to do list. The others had left him to it; most likely glad that he wasn't throttling Ketch. He just needed to keep his hands busy.

He'd just swapped oil cans when he felt his phone buzz against his leg, its ringtone emanating from his pocket. Putting the gun piece down, he snagged his phone out of his jeans and frowned at the screen, not recognising the number.

"Who is this?" he barked, his heart beginning to beat faster, the static intensifying in him.

"Dean? It's Missouri."

"The psychic?" he asked, incredulous, his frown dropping.

"No, the stripper," she retorted and Dean could almost hear her eyes roll. "Boy, who else is it gonna be?!"

"Sorry," he mumbled, chastised before the frowned returned. "Why're you callin'?"

"You need to get your butt down here. It's Sam."

Gun forgotten, Dean was up and running.

oOo

 **I have been so excited about writing Missouri: she's a favourite of mine and I'd planned to get her in right from the beginning. The fact that they then announced her coming back for 13 has made me so happy!**

 **Don't worry, we're not out of the woods yet; answers don't come that easy ;)**

 **Please review!**


	14. Walking Shell of Who I Used to Be

**Thanks for your patience and your reviews! Apologies for my username change if that has caused confusion: I've had to change it from Fiery Charizard for personal reasons. I'm not quite used to reading it as Winchester Mythology, but all the content is still the same and it's still me!**

 **Enjoy!**

oOo

 _"I need you to need me"_

 _\- I Want You to Want Me, Chase Holfelder_

oOo

 **Lawrence, Kansas**

The Impala's door slammed, a deep thud in the darkness as Dean bolted across the grass, Cas hot on his heels, trench coat snapping out behind him. They both covered the sidewalk and the pathway up to Missouri's front door in seconds, Dean's hand raised to pound on the wooden frame, but the psychic beat him to it, opening the door before he could. Her frown was deep and chiding.

"Boy, you got any idea what time it is? My neighbours have gotta right to sleep without wakin' up to you chargin' about like a bull," she admonished him as she stepped to one side.

"I don't give a crap about the neighbours; where is he?" Dean snapped impatiently as he stalked in. Missouri looked Cas up and down as he eased in through the door without the same bluster as the Winchester.

"You must be the angel. Funny, I can't read you; first time that's ever happened," she remarked, ignoring Dean's question, her frown turning to a wrinkle of curiosity.

"I think on a different…frequency to humans. Your minds tend to work in images and the illusion of voices whereas angels tend to see the smallest detail, down to the molecules, which would make thinking that way tedious –"

"Cas? Focus, man," Dean grumbled, frowning as his gaze swept around the empty living room. "I thought you said he was here?"

"He was, Dean, but I need you to sit your butt down on that sofa and listen to me before you go barrelling after him," Missouri ordered, her no-nonsense tone pushing the hunter down into the chair before he even realised he'd moved. Missouri pointed with her gaze to the sofa again, Cas catching the cue. She took her seat opposite them as the angel sat beside the hunter. She locked gazes with Dean for a few moments, her hard eyes softening as her mouth downturned. "I'm sorry you had to see that, honey. He doesn't know you were there," she explained gently. Dean swallowed hard.

"Is he okay?"

"Being taken for a third time didn't scramble his eggs any more than they were before, if that's what you mean by okay, but I think that's because he got out himself. It _is_ odd that he made it out _so_ easily," she mused, rubbing a hand over her cheek. "You think it was deliberate too."

"Like you said: it was too easy. Then I got let out and dumped back home. It doesn't add up," Dean grumbled his affirmation, shifting uncomfortably on the sofa while his gaze wandered, almost like he was expecting Sam to appear.

"For what it's worth, I don't think that whoever it was is followin' either of you now. Ever since Sam came, I've been scannin' any mind that comes within a block of my house. You're not on anyone's radar except your own."

"Thanks," Dean nodded, her confirmation easing some of the worry from the corners of his mouth.

"Now that that's cleared up, let's talk about your brother. He came to me because I'm someone he knew he can trust and I know that hurts, honey, but he's not doin' it to hurt you."

"I know."

"You think you do and you get some of what he's goin' through, but you don't get it all," Missouri explained, picking up a cup from a tray on the table between them. She took a long sip before setting it back down. "Sam has spent months now, thinking that everything he sees, feels, hears is a trap made by the devil."

"Yeah, we know." Dean growled. Missouri glared at him.

"You know, but you don't _understand_ ," she snapped, putting the cup back down, her fists balling. "Imagine, from the moment you wake up, to the moment your body finally gives up and you pass out, that everything is watching you. And I mean _everything_. Imagine havin' to work up to goin' outside, jumpin' every time you hear a bird callin'.

"Think what it'd be like to starve because you're too afraid to go anywhere near a store where there are other people. Imagine thinkin' that the devil is inside _every single person_ on the street." Her eyes bore into Dean's as her voice rose. "Imagine havin' to do all that and know that there is _no one_ you can turn to 'cause some whackadoo from England told you your brother is dead and the devil is paradin' around in his meatsuit, laughin' at you every time you dare creep outside.

"That's the world Sam is livin' right now. That's what he's dealt with for months."

Dean's jaw worked but he said nothing. There was nothing he could say. She was right; he'd known but he'd pushed the details to one side, unable to think about them. Even now, he could feel himself pushing them away, waiting to be dealt with later. His pain didn't matter.

"Honey, it does matter. There's gonna have to be a lot of healin' for all of you after this. Don't shove it away," Missouri remarked, her tone saddening as the force left her voice.

"He needs me to be strong, not wallowin' over all this."

"No, Dean, he needs you to be real," she countered gently. Dean turned his gaze away.

"What happened when he got here?" Cas intervened, taking the focus off the hunter.

"He asked for the truth and I gave it to him. I think he came here because it's been so long since y'all have been down here that he figured I'd be the safest bet he had. I'd like to say that's the end of it – that me tellin' him this isn't all in his head has made it all okay, but it hasn't. It won't. But it's a start and that's what we gotta build on."

"So where is he?" Dean asked.

"I gotta small cabin on the outskirts of town. He wouldn't stay here and a motel was out of the question for now – too many people. I fed him – poor boy hasn't had a proper meal in weeks – and took him up there. He knows I'm gonna head back to him tonight and he knows you're comin'."

"You told him?!" Dean exclaimed, incredulous. Missouri rolled her eyes.

"You really think springin' you on him without tellin' him was gonna be a good idea? Boy, sometimes I think you're half a plank short of a pyre."

"Great, so he'll be gone by now," the hunter snarled, pushing himself up off the sofa, his boots thumping as he stalked over to the window, staring out as he tried to rein in his frustration.

"I don't think so, not this time," Missouri replied thoughtfully. Dean half turned to face her again. "His paranoia is killin' him. All he does is run because he's scared and he's scared because he runs. Sam doesn't want that anymore; he knows it's not gonna fix anythin'. He's so exhausted all the time – not just physically, but mentally. He just can't do this anymore. To him, I think this is it; he either has to learn what the truth is or…"

"Or what?" Cas' question was a whisper than hung heavy in the air.

"Or he'll die," Missouri murmured, meeting Cas' gaze head on. Dean's fist clenched, a muscle in his jawline twitching. His shoulders rose mightily as he inhaled, both the psychic and angel watching him as he quelled his rage. It took a few moments and, when he turned around, the tumultuous emerald of his eyes was calm.

"That ain't gonna happen."

 _There ain't no me if there ain't no you._

It stood then and it would now. Dean wouldn't have it any other way. Missouri nodded, a sad smile creeping across her lips.

"Go grab me my coat from the stand in the hall and we'll go see your brother."

oOo

 **Outskirts of Lawrence, Kansas**

It was different from all the other cabins Sam had ever stayed in. Most hunters' cabins were rundown, shabby huts that had minimal comfort but had a well-stocked arsenal stashed somewhere – usually in the basement or under the floorboards.

Missouri's was nothing like that.

It was clean, to start with. Homely. The lights painted it a soft gold with light pine walls rather than the dark, cobwebbed interiors he was used to. Everything was spotless yet the furnishings that did adorn it were comforting. On the walls were family photos – Sam hadn't ever realised that Missouri had relatives – a young woman appearing in many of them, her eyes bright and her smile wide as she stood with an easy arm wrapped around Missouri's shoulders.

He'd curled himself up on the sofa, permanently restless. His nails were bitten to the quick, even though he'd never been a biter, and his leg was bouncing uncontrollably.

 _Honey, I need to call him_.

Squeezing his hands into fists and shoving them in his armpits had stopped them from shaking.

 _You don't. Please._

 _We both know I do. It's okay. Nothing bad will happen._

Missouri hadn't promised and, for that, Sam was grateful. People didn't keep promises anymore and she couldn't guarantee what would happen anyway. She'd set him up in the cabin, made him a cup of tea, and left with reassurances that she would be back. He could've run. A big part of him still wanted to, but, deep down, he knew it wouldn't do him any good.

When he was strong, he would've been ashamed to breakdown in front of Missouri like he'd done. That was before. Now, he'd found a modicum of solace in it, in talking to someone who wasn't threatening him for the first time in months. It could all still be a ploy and that was something he knew he couldn't deny, but, for that moment, he'd let himself find comfort.

That was then.

Now, he was faced with the very real concept of a confrontation he'd been running from. Sam wasn't afraid of dying anymore – he wasn't even that bothered by the idea of torture – he'd been through too much to care. No, now it was a different something that bothered him. Whenever he thought about it, the panic rose again, so he shoved it down every time it bubbled.

He just needed to get through tonight.

A soft knock at the door sent his heart thrumming.

"Sam? It's Missouri, honey." The psychic's voice was muffled through the door which clicked softly when she eased it open and stepped through alone.

Missouri closed the door quietly, noting the wide-eyed stare of panic that had dilated Sam's pupils so that they were practically black rather than grey. She spread out her hands, holding them up and forwards as if she was approaching a wild colt. As she walked forwards, she was amazed, yet again, to see the Winchester almost literally having to pull himself together. The psychic felt the mental upheaval it took for him to calm himself down and squash the panic that was constantly tingling beneath his skin. Where he'd learned to do it, she had no idea but, without it, Sam Winchester would've died a long time ago. Most other people would have already.

The older woman eased herself down onto the sofa beside him, putting her handbag on the floor. Reaching out, she took his frozen hand in her warm ones and stroked the back of it with her thumbs as she locked eyes with him, helping him to centre himself.

"You know what I'm gonna say," she started, leaving out the preamble of asking how he was. She already knew. Sam's eyes flicked to the door and she felt his mind flash white.

"He's outside," Sam whispered, his eyes starting to shutter again instantly, but he couldn't stop his voice from cracking. Missouri gave his hand a squeeze, making him focus back on her.

"This is on _your_ terms, Sam. Not mine, not Dean's, not Castiel's," she insisted, "how this happens is entirely up to you and for as long as _you_ want. I can be here or I can go; you can have both of them in here or one at a time. It's your choice and they respect that."

Sam licked dry lips and nodded.

oOo

Dean paced along the length of the Impala, his boots scratching across the gravel. Castiel stood, leaning against the hood of the car, his hands inside his trench coat. The cabin glowed in the darkness a few yards away from them. Missouri had been in there for nearly half an hour without any kind of signal to them and it was taking everything Dean had not to go running to his brother.

Maybe one day, patience would be his virtue.

Cas had said little, but he'd stayed; his presence bringing comfort while Dean waited. He glanced up over at the angel when he turned again on the spot. The angel was simply staring up at the stars, his eyes unseeing, his expression thoughtful. He'd put up with every flare of anger, every frustration Dean had vented, all without complaint. Just like always.

Slowly, Dean walked back the length of the car and perched on the hood next to his friend, shoving his hands into his pockets. He turned his face up, staring up at the endless stars that were curtained by the silhouettes of the trees.

"It's quiet tonight," Cas remarked, breaking the silence between them.

"Well we are in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night," Dean chuffed, a small half smile tugging the corner of his mouth.

"I was referring to the universe. It's all…stopped for a moment. Even the angels are quieter," Cas replied, his eyes wandering across the stars as though he could see what was on each one.

"Ain't that a bad thing? Everythin' goin' quiet?"

The angel shook his head. "No. It just means that for a small moment in time, everything seems to be just a little bit better. Obviously, bad things are still happening, but there are some moments where they're not quite as awful."

"Kinda feels like that for us," Dean murmured, looking back down at the ground.

"This _is_ a good thing, Dean. We've got a long way to go, but this is a step in the right direction, for both you and Sam," Cas insisted, bringing his gaze across to look at the hunter. Dean cleared his throat.

"And you, Cas."

"I'm fine, Dean."

"I know, but sometimes I don't think you know how much you really do for us," Dean answered, turning to meet the angel's gaze. Cas opened his mouth to reply but Dean pulled his hand from his pocket and held it up. "I just wanted to say thanks, man. This ain't been easy and I know I've taken a lot of shit out on you. Sam hasn't made it easy either. Hell, last time he was conscious around you, he shot you."

"He knew that wouldn't kill me, though," the angel pointed out. Dean rolled his eyes.

"That's not the point, Cas; we don't go round shootin' family," he grumbled.

"Dean, it's alright. I don't blame Sam for that; I only want to help."

"I know. I just…sometimes I forget to say thanks," Dean apologised, looking up when he saw the door open, letting the light spill out. Missouri waved them forwards through the darkness. Dean clapped Cas on the shoulder before leading the way up to the cabin. Fear pooled in his gut, making him nauseous. He shouldn't feel this way: not about seeing his brother. Missouri was stood on the porch by the time they'd walked up to it, her hand behind her, holding the door closed loosely.

"He wants to see both of you, but, honey, he _is_ terrified. Just keep that in mind, okay?" she whispered, waiting for him to nod. The hunter squashed down the irritation that flared – he knew his brother better than she did – but he knew that she was doing her best to protect Sam. He nodded and she pushed backwards, opening the door for him. Dean stepped forwards.

"Sammy?"

Sam's head snapped up, his heart tripping at the soft call. It sounded so much like home that his chest ached instantly. He looked towards the door, locking eyes with the tall hunter stood in its frame, edged by the darkness from outside. His sandy hair was dishevelled, like he'd run his hands back through it too many times; his shirt was rumpled beneath his faded green jacket and what would've been a five o'clock shadow on his cheeks was becoming more than just stubble. His eyes were clear: apprehension and fear floated in their depths beneath a crinkled brow. Neither of which were emotions that Lucifer would choose.

 _That doesn't mean it's not him_.

Dean stopped in the doorway, waiting, watching carefully, his heart aching when he saw Sam fix him with a gaze of raw fear. His brother looked…gaunt. It had only been a few days since Dean had watched him on the tv screen from his cell, but he was noticeably thinner. There were hollows in his cheeks and huge circles of black beneath his eyes which were wide and glazed with panic. His hair was a mess and the clothes he'd been kept in were hanging off his tall frame. The urge to go forwards and hug the younger man, to show him that it was okay – that he was here – was overwhelming and yet he couldn't do it. The pure terror that was rolling off of his baby brother was enough to keep him at bay.

And it hurt like hell.

Sam watched as Missouri bustled back in, closing the door gently behind the angel. She moved over to the sofa in front of him and sat herself down between the brothers.

"Dean, you're in the way of the door," she chided softly, her voice sparking a jolt through the hunter. Sam watched him mumble an apology and shuffle in, leaving the doorway visible. His heart slow minutely, but not enough. He stood behind the sofa, his thumb pressing into his left hand, looking to the man before him helplessly. What the hell was he supposed to say?

Sam's look took Dean back years, before any of this crap happened, before Sam had taken up the hunting life properly. Dean's mind conjured a much younger Sammy who was lying on the ground, cradling his arm as tears welled and dripped onto his homemade Bat-suit. The same grey eyes looked up to him helplessly then, begging him to make it okay.

That was what he did. That's what big brothers do.

"Are you okay?" Dean asked, the words falling from his tongue as the memory whispered away. He watched as Sam swallowed, closing his eyes as he took a huge breath, controlling it purposefully. Shaking his head, Sam's eyes opened.

"Not even close," he answered, his voice almost hoarse. Shame panged through him, pinballing through his stomach, his head dropping. This wasn't what he wanted; if that was Dean, he didn't want him to see the shell he'd become.

"Good." Sam's head snapped up, horror in his eyes. Dean's hands were up defensively. "Shit, Sam – I – crap, I didn't mean…not good that you're not okay, but –"

"Boy, how is it that you can stick both those boots in your mouth at once? Honest to God, you have a talent for it," Missouri interrupted, rolling her eyes. She turned to Sam. "What he's tryin' to say is that he's glad you're bein' honest. He's scared that you wouldn't."

Dean wanted to rebuke her, but she was right and, for once, he wasn't sure how to lead with his own brother. It wasn't a welcome feeling and he watched with dismay as Sam gave a heavy shrug.

"The only thing lies have got me recently is more pain. The truth can't hurt me more than that." He sounded so exhausted: like he was tired of existing. Understanding of what Missouri had said was beginning to dawn on the hunter; if this didn't work, Dean would lose his brother. Permanently. He took a step forward, stopping, horrified, when Sam took an involuntary one back. The air evaporated from his lungs and he fought to get it back.

"What can I do? How do I make this right, Sammy?" he choked out, his eyes glistening. He didn't care that Cas and Missouri were there. All he saw was Sam.

"I don't know," Sam whispered, hating the fear that rolled through him. The hunter in front of him was _so_ convincing as his brother. Everything about him was perfect and yet he couldn't shrug off the unease he felt. "I need time. If what Missouri said is true…"

"It is, Sam," Cas interjected softly. A half smile rose and fell like a breath on Sam's lips but it couldn't reach his eyes.

"Then I need you guys to wait. To give me that time. 'Cause right now, you scare the shit outta me."

He watched as the hunter's eyes shuttered, locking down the hurt that his words caused. Sam ached; he didn't want to cause pain, but that's all his life had anymore. "Find me a way to know that this is real."

"You got it, Sammy." He could do that. Dean looked at his brother square in the eye. "I _will_ find some way to prove it. I don't care how long it takes but we'll get there. But I need you to do somethin' for me." His hands came up again, palms down, trying to calm the panic that sparked in his brother again. "I won't ask you to trust us – not yet – 'cause I don't think you can. I know you're not doin' it outta spite and I gotta deal with that in my own way.

"But I need you to let me in, just a little; I can't do this if you keep runnin'. I need you to keep bein' honest, even if you think it hurts. I don't care about me; I care about you. You want time; I can give you that. Hell, I'll give you space, but I need to be able to contact you. Let me get your phone." He gestured behind him. "It's in the Impala. I need to know you're safe, Sammy. That's what I need right now." Dean's final sentence was a plea and he didn't care.

Sam looked from the hunter to Missouri, chewing his lip as the psychic nodded encouragingly.

"Okay," he conceded, sudden exhaustion sweeping over him again. "I won't run. It's not like I've got anywhere to go."

 _Home. You've got home to go to_.

Dean wanted to say it so desperately, but he couldn't; the words got stuck like a lump in his throat.

"I think we need to let Sam get some rest. In fact, I think we all need it," Missouri intervened, looking pointedly at Dean. "Go get that phone, honey, and we'll be off."

Dean nodded and turned to the door, patting Cas' shoulder, encouraging him to go too. The angel smiled sadly at Sam.

"It's good to see you, Sam." The younger Winchester nodded as they left, heading back out into the darkness in silence. Dean headed to the trunk, unlocking it and pulling a bag from it before heading to the front and reaching into the glove compartment. Pulling out Sam's phone, he switched it on for the first time in months, the screen glowing in the pitch black of the night. He headed back up to the cabin.

Sam didn't move as he watched the older Winchester come back in, a duffel bag in one hand, his phone in the other. He put both on the small coffee table in front of the sofa, Missouri giving a small nod of approval as she stood up.

"I thought you might want some of your own clothes back. I've kept your bag in the car, just in case, y'know…" Dean explained, his sentence drifting off.

"Thanks," Sam replied, hating how stiff he sounded. How offkey. This wasn't how it should be.

"The shower's out the back. Make yourself comfy, Sam. Get some rest. Things are always clearer with a new day," Missouri instructed kindly as she bustled over towards the door, standing beside the hunter. Sam nodded, saying nothing as she shooed the hunter out of the door, closing it softly behind them. He waited until he heard the roar of the Impala, another pang shooting through him, before he slid to the floor behind the sofa, curling up, hugging his knees and resting his forehead on them.

He hoped to God he was doing the right thing.

oOo

 **Good God, that was hard. I hope you enjoyed it! I don't like awkward brothers :(**

 **Please review!**


	15. Unsteady

**Thank you for some awesome reviews guys! I know this is pretty heavy at the moment, but I WILL fix our boys…honest!**

oOo

 _"If you love me, don't let go."_

 _\- Unsteady, X Ambassadors_

oOo

 **Lawrence Kansas**

The next two days proved to be a stilted collection of awkward, tension-infused meetings that exhausted both brothers, but Sam most of all. Dean only wanted to help, but he ended up hovering more than he meant to. As for Sam, the constant anxiety created new levels of stress that he couldn't seem to get a handle on, let alone control. He tried to hide it, but he knew he was failing miserably. Missouri bustled about, doing her own thing, providing an unspoken comfort for both brothers. She watched with a heaviness that was foreign for her; she remembered the boys' grief from all those years ago and even that had felt lighter than it did now. All either of them wanted was normalcy and yet neither could get it.

"Why don't you boys try goin' out on the porch for a while? Get some fresh air? Ain't no good you being cooped up in here all the time," she suggested, looking up from the pot she was stirring. Dean looked over from the couch, his eyes slipping over to Sam who was stood by one of the windows opposite, staring out at the trees beyond. The younger Winchester turned and looked at the psychic, apprehension clear in his eyes. He hadn't stepped foot outside of the cabin since he'd arrived. Missouri smiled at him sadly. "You gotta brave it some time, honey. There ain't nothin' evil on that porch that couldn't get you in here."

"That's real comforting," Dean mumbled, but he felt his heart flutter when Sam nodded and took a few tentative steps towards the door. He stopped at the door, his hand resting on the handle. For a moment, he didn't move; he stood with his eyes squeezed shut as Dean watched him, holding his breath, dismay in his heart. Was this what Sam had had to go through for months?

 _You know, but you don't understand. Imagine, from the moment you wake up, to the moment your body finally gives up and you pass out, that everything is watching you. And I mean_ everything _. Imagine havin' to work up to goin' outside, jumpin' every time you hear a bird callin'._

Nothing had happened to him for two days and yet, Sam was still having to find strength to perform the most basic of tasks. It tore Dean apart every time he saw it and he had to fight the tears that welled. This wasn't how it was supposed to be.

The door cracked open, letting in a cool breeze that stirred the air within.

"You want me to stay here?" Dean asked, sitting forward, elbows on his knees, but making no move to stand. Sam turned dulled eyes on him and let go of a loose shrug.

"You can come out if you want," he replied quietly, moving outside but leaving the door open. Missouri smiled at Dean encouragingly, waving in the direction of the door with her wooden spoon. Steeling his spine, Dean walked out after his brother, pulling the door until it was ajar rather than closed completely.

Sam was sat on the step leading down to the path, pressed against the wooden pillar that supported the roof and lined the porch with the small fence. He was hunched forward, his arms folded across his stomach, curled in on himself, but his head was up, his gaze forward and out across the woods before them. The Impala was sat a few yards away, its chrome glinting in the sunlight. Dean eased himself down onto the step, making sure he didn't sit too close to his brother. It was foreign, having to think about even the smallest things, and he hated it.

They sat, the silence growing between them, pressing in around them.

Sam glanced at Dean from the corner of his eye. The hunter had hovered and started forced conversations that had died in the void between them. Sam had lost count of the number of times he'd seen him open his mouth to say something but the words never made it out. The younger Winchester knew he was the reason, but he couldn't change it; he was doing the best he could.

"I know this isn't easy," he murmured, locking his gaze forward again. It was easier to talk without looking at the man beside him. It was as though he was talking to himself again and that was somehow better.

"It's not your fault, Sam. None of this is," Dean replied, his voice quietly matching Sam's, making the younger Winchester's heart ache. He wanted to believe so bad it hurt. But he couldn't be sure, not after two days. "What can I do? How do I make this better?"

He needed proof.

It was as simple as that. Sure, the hunter had readily taken Cas' angel blade the day before, slicing open his palm, revealing nothing but a red well of blood. The angel had taken it next, doing the same, a flash of blue glowing from the wound. It was meant to prove that one was divine and the other wasn't. Sam want to be convinced. He did. But there was a constant nagging whisper coiling through his mind, poking and prodding, colouring everything, refusing to allow him to just accept what was said. Ironically, the only thing he was sure of was that he couldn't be sure of anything.

Gazing across at the treeline, Dean's fingers brushed across the bandage around his hand. He'd hoped, so badly, that that would've been enough. He'd been a fool. Sam had nodded and said the right words but Dean could see the doubt in his eyes as clear as day. He needed _something_ to work. He needed a win and that wasn't happening. With every minute in the last two days he could feel his own doubt chewing away at him, at his faith. If he couldn't save Sam, who the hell could?

 _You know the answer to that._

He shoved the thought down angrily. There was no way he could bring that suggestion up yet. He'd only just got Sam back. He wasn't ready to lose him again. There had to be other things they could try first. Things that might work. And yet, deep down, Dean knew they wouldn't. Cas' plan was probably the only thing that would work.

"I don't know," Sam replied softly, still keeping his gaze away from Dean. "I know that's not what you wanna hear."

Dean swallowed the frustration that rose, angry at himself. He shouldn't have to ask: he should just know how to fix it.

"Don't worry 'bout what I wanna hear. 'Long as you keep fightin' this, we can work it out. There's gonna be a way. We'll find it; we always do," he replied hoarsely, trying to make himself sound convincing. He needed Sam to believe it. Another tired, slow nod from his brother was the only acknowledgement he got before they lapsed into silence once more.

"Did you…were you there – a few weeks ago?" Sam's stuttered question came out of the blue, surprising Dean. He turned to look at his brother again, watching his brow burrow as he searched a memory. "When I got sick?"

"Yeah, Sammy, I was there," Dean replied, watching Sam swallow, his throat working as though he was trying to dislodge a lump that was stuck there. "You remember what I said?"

 _He lied. It was a trick. It was all a lie._

"You said Thomas had used a spell to poison me – make me think that everything he said was gospel. I got sick 'cause it was wearing off."

"Did you believe me?" Dean asked, watching carefully, hoping silently.

Slowly, Sam nodded. "Yeah, I did. Looking back, I knew something was wrong – that the way I was feeling wasn't normal. He'd…do or say things and I'd want to argue or fight back but this…feeling would wash over me and I wouldn't be able to. Then, when I got taken this time, the guy kept making me say – out loud – all the things Thomas did to me. I think..." Sam paused, running a hand back through his hair as he fought back the flutter of panic that rose. "…I think in some weird, screwed up way, he was trying to help me see what Thomas was doing, to stop me from thinking that Thomas had been right."

"What he did to you…"

"Wasn't okay. I'm not saying it was and I wouldn't want you to see what happened. But since then, I can see Thomas for the monster he was," Sam whispered. Guilt wracked Dean; he couldn't bring himself to tell Sam he'd been there; that he'd seen everything. He didn't need to know, not yet. That was Dean's burden to carry. He watched as Sam slowly, finally, turned eyes that were full of unshed tears to meet his gaze. "He was the one who told me this wasn't real – that you're dead. If I can believe he was a monster, why can't I believe that what he said is a lie?"

The tears fell and Sam looked away. Dean had to fight not to scoot over and gather his brother into his arms. He needed to but, beyond the tears, he could see the fear lying in wait at the back of Sam's eyes. Instead, he reached out a tentative hand and hesitated, letting it hover, before he gently brought it down on Sam's shoulder, wanting to give some kind of comfort. Sam flinched, his eyes snapping open, his mouth gaping open. Dean wrenched his hand away.

"Sorry," he mumbled, shoving his hands into his lap. The fear quelled and Sam looked at him, his expression so melancholic that Dean felt tears sting behind his eyes.

"It's…it's okay. I just…I'm not adjusting. Nothing feels right – nothing is familiar and I can't seem to get a grip on anything," Sam answered, bowing his head. He couldn't bear to see the anguish on the hunter's face, knowing he was the one causing it.

Dean looked at the Impala, chewing his lip thoughtfully.

"Why don't we try goin' home? Back to the bunker? That might help," he suggested, a sudden longing for the comfort of their home pounding through him. If Sam was going to get better anywhere, the bunker was where it was going to happen. They had nowhere else to go.

He watched Sam mull it over, apprehension oozing from him in waves. The door behind them creaked, Missouri stood over them, her oven mitts in one hand.

"You can make your decisions later. Right now, it's lunch time," she instructed in her no-nonsense tone. The gentle scent of jambalaya wafted out, making Dean's mouth water. He stood up and turned, aware of Sam doing the same as he stepped back towards the door.

"Hey."

He turned again, looking down at his brother who stood on the step below him. Despite his towering height, Dean had never seen Sam look so small.

"I…I need to think about it," he said softly, his look imploring. It was a step closer than they'd been an hour ago so Dean would take it. It was something. He gave Sam an easy half smile.

"There's no rush, Sammy. You're in charge here."

He made a mental note to step out for a much-needed phone conversation later – one that was out of Sam's earshot.

oOo

 **Lebanon, Kansas**

The sound of fingers stroking across keys filled the bunker's library, its staccato the only sound in the silence. The lights were on but dimmed, creating a warm glow that drenched the room in a cosiness that the heating somehow could never create. Ketch enjoyed being in the room; it connected him to his home more than anywhere else. To be amongst bookcases full of the knowledge obtained by the Men of Letters brought him a sense of belonging that he only ever felt when he was working. His fingers paused on the laptop. He'd been in America too long. The overemotional hunters were starting to rub off on him. Shaking his head, the Englishman banished the sentimentality from his mind. It had no place with him.

Resuming his typing, he scanned over the algorithm he'd been working on for the last day. Pressing enter, he watched, satisfied when several windows popped up, each article relevant and exactly what he'd hoped for. Next to him, his phone buzzed, lighting up with a new call. He picked it up and swiped, pressing it to his ear.

"Yes?" he asked, skipping an introduction.

"It's Griff. I just wanted to make sure everything had gone smoothly."

Ketch frowned, leaning back in his chair.

"It has, thank you. But I thought I told you to get the next flight out," he remarked, annoyance lacing his tone. Griff's laugh was tinny down the phone.

"You worry too much. I handled both those boys together just fine. I ain't worried."

"I assure you, Mr Andrews, you should be. You 'handled' them because of careful planning on both our parts. Imagine if you actually had someone you cared about; what would you do if you'd seen what Dean did?"

There was a pause.

"I'd hunt him down and rip him to pieces." Griff's tone was hesitant now.

"Precisely. Dean Winchester is no different. He'll do worse to you than you can imagine. I am not one to exaggerate, Mr Andrews; I can assure you. Now, unless you do have a death wish, I would suggest you take the passport I gave you and find somewhere abroad and isolated to go and lay low for a few months. I would rather not have your death on my head – I have plenty more uses for a man of your talents, but that's only if you're not idiotic in the meantime."

"Fine," Griff growled, clearly uneasy.

"Good. Ditch your phone, your emails, everything. I'll contact you in a few months."

"How are you gonna do that if you don't know how to contact me?"

"Oh, Mr Andrews, I have my ways." Ketch's smile was sly and deprecating. "I always find those I'm looking for. Now, watch your back."

The phone clicked off and the Englishman scrolled through his phone logs, deleting all entries relating to Griffin Andrews. He really did hope the mercenary stayed hidden. It was difficult finding individuals as useful as he had been.

He turned back to the laptop, scanning over the information his algorithm was picking up. Their next steps would be difficult but not impossible; they were just going to have to think ahead of the game. Ketch's glance slid over to the small hard-shelled briefcase that sat on the chair to his left. There was no guarantee that the Hyperbolic Pulse Generator would work, but it was certainly worth a shot. Designing his 'toys' had always been an area of immense satisfaction for the Englishman; he was an artist, a genius in his own field and he knew it.

His phone went off again and, this time, Ketch felt a sliver of dismay as he picked it up. He knew the essence of this call; it was the whole reason he'd created the algorithm on Sam's laptop. He wouldn't get to see whether his work was effective or not. Sighing, Ketch picked it up.

"Good afternoon, Dean," he greeted smoothly, picking up a notepad and a pen. "How is Sam?"

"None of your concern," the hunter snarled down the line, his voice full of menace. Lesser men than Ketch would've felt fear seep through them in an instant. "I'm gonna make this real clear for you. I want you gone – out of the bunker, out of America. Go back to England and stay there. I can't prove that you had anythin' to do with what happened to me and Sam, but I know what my gut tells me.

"Start runnin' Ketch, 'cause the moment I find proof, there won't be a corner in hell you can hide in. You or the guy you worked with."

"You believe what you need to, Dean. Good luck," Ketch replied, ending the call; there was no need to bandy words. Dean wasn't going to believe him. He couldn't really blame the Winchester. He was smart, but, luckily for Ketch, he was smarter. His doubt was actually part of what the Englishman admired so much about him; in another life, they would have accomplished great things together. Dean was a man of honour underneath it all and, until he did find proof, he wouldn't do a thing. And Ketch had made sure that he never would.

That didn't mean he was going to tempt fate.

Penning a short note in his fluid handwriting, Ketch ripped the paper carefully from the notepad and, closing the laptop and putting the small briefcase on the table, he placed the note on top of the computer. Picking up his own case, Ketch walked out of the library. There was no one left for him to say his goodbyes to – Jody had travelled back up to Sioux Falls to her girls now that she wasn't needed by the boys for the moment. Jogging up the stairs, the Englishman swept out through the door without a backwards glance.

oOo

 **KS-128N, Outskirts of Ionia, Kansas**

The roar of the Impala growled in the darkness, breaking the night's silence as it raced down the empty highway. The headlights pooled in front of them, illuminating the cracks and bumps with shadows. Def Leopard was turned down low, barely even registering inside, but it was enough to bring some sense of normality within Baby. Cas sat in the back, staring forward resolutely, watching the drive with interest despite its lack of change in the last three hours. Dean glanced in the rear-view mirror at him every now and then but he stole looks over to his right more often.

Getting Sam into the Impala and able to sit without freaking out had taken time and a lot of cajoling from both the elder Winchester and Missouri. Throughout it all, Sam had apologised, directing his gaze to the psychic with each 'sorry' that dropped from his lips. It didn't go unnoticed by Dean, but he did his best to shove down the ineptitude he felt. Eventually his little brother would look to him for support again. He just had to be patient. Missouri had offered to come with them, but Sam had sucked in a breath and shaken his head. He needed to be able to do this on his own. Dean hadn't been convinced.

"Give him time; let him take the lead. That's the only thing that is gonna work, honey," Missouri had murmured as they'd stood on the porch of the cabin. Cas was already sat in the back, his mouth moving as he spoke to Sam in the front, but neither could hear what was being said.

"I know…I just…hell, what if this completely screws up?" he had asked, shoving his hands in his pockets. Missouri had patted his arm, her smile sympathetic.

"It could, I'm not gonna lie. But you gotta stop treating him like spun glass. He's a lot stronger than he was even two days ago. He _wants_ this to be true, Dean. You just gotta be the one to pick him up when he falls."

Her words echoed in his mind as he drove, sneaking another look over. Sam was asleep, his head lolling to the right, his cheek resting on his shoulder. He looked…peaceful. Normal. Like they were just on their way back from a regular hunt. If he was honest, Dean hadn't expected Sam to be able to fall asleep at all, but exhaustion had won out; he was so highly-strung all the time that he physically couldn't maintain it, not with the malnourishment he was recovering from as well. The elder Winchester liked to think it was also Baby's familiarity. The scent of the car had always brought comfort to both of them; it was the single constant they'd both shared throughout the years, even when one of them was gone. Even if Dean couldn't look after his brother the way he wanted to, Baby could.

He just had to believe the bunker would too.

Turning into the sideroad that lead to the bunker, Dean let the Impala slow to a roll as they approached the entrance to the underground garage.

oOo

Sam jerked back to consciousness when the door behind him squealed open.

"Hey, hey, easy." He turned bewildered eyes to his left, blinking before he took in the sight of the hunter, his hands raised, palms up, non-threatening. "We're home." Sam pulled his gaze away, focusing on the world beyond the windshield. The lines of classic cars were all where they'd always been, each one glinting in the lights.

"You cleaned them," he remarked, his tongue feeling thick and fuzzy. Dean huffed a chuckle beside him.

"Yeah, I…needed some space. This was the best place for me to get it," he answered, pulling on the doorlatch, all the while keeping his eyes locked on Sam. Taking a deep breath, Sam nodded, fumbling for his own door. The creaks of the hinges brought forth another pang of nostalgia as he climbed out, the movement so fluid, so familiar, that he felt his heart trip in anticipation. It almost felt like home.

Castiel had already walked through into the bunker; Dean waited for him to move forwards.

 _Just one foot in front of the other. Do it._

His feet did as the hunter inside him said, making him fall in line behind Dean. As they walked, he studied the back of the hunter. He saw the slope of his shoulders, hunching him forwards a little more than usual, his fingers idly playing with the keys to the Impala while he carried his duffel bag in the other. He looked…worn out.

 _What do you expect? If it is…_

Sam snapped his look away, ending the thought before it could form. He wasn't going to think about it; he couldn't.

Following down the steps, they emerged into the war room, the table sitting empty, its usual glow lighting up the room, shinning on the gold of the bannister, leading up to the main entrance. Sam looked up, his feet stopping. He saw himself, stood near the top, his hand wrapped around Jody's throat, the hunter looking up at him.

 _"Sammy, you need to stop, okay? I know you're scared and what Ketch did wasn't okay, but I promise you you're safe here. You don't need to hurt Jody; we only want to help," Lucifer, disguised as Dean, pleaded, his voice calm yet tinged with terror. "Let her go, man, c'mon. This isn't you. You don't wanna hurt her."_

White noise hissed in his ears and he forgot to breathe. He'd been so sure he was facing down Lucifer. That the person he'd been holding had been an imposter. What if–

"Sammy? Hey, talk to me. You're practically green, man," Dean remarked, his voice breaking the memory, the train of thought, letting Sam breathe again. He fixed his eyes on the worried emerald ones before him, taking huge breaths to centre himself.

"I'm okay," he lied, unable to even convince himself. He ran a hand down over his face. "I just…I need to go lie down."

Dean nodded, the worry lines still present around his downturned mouth. "Okay. Whatever you need."

The elder Winchester watched as Sam nodded and lurched off through the library, his head down, keeping his eyes to the floor. Dean looked up to the stairwell and over to his disappearing brother again, understanding dawning.

 _Dean watched, horrified, as Sam reached Jody, knocking her to one side before doing a quick turn on the spot and grabbing her with his good arm, his huge hand wrapping around her throat._

 _Dean stopped three steps from the top of the stairs._

 _"If you come any closer, I'll snap her neck," Sam snarled, his grip already tightening, but all Dean saw was the fear in his eyes and the confusion followed by panic that flooded in Jody's. Her fingers grappled with his hand, trying to loosen his grip. Dean put his hands up._

"Hell," he whispered, throwing his bag onto the war room table. He wanted nothing more than to go after Sam, to tell him that it was okay – he hadn't meant to hurt Jody – but Dean knew he wouldn't listen.

Not yet.

Turning towards the other door, he headed for the kitchen.

oOo

Sam stumbled into his bedroom, closing the door behind him and leaning back against it. There was nothing: not a single sound as he slowly breathed out, fighting to quell his tripping heartbeat. He'd made it. It didn't feel much like an achievement.

Looking around, he took in the familiar sight of his room. The bed had been made, fresh white sheets and a beige comforter tugged in neatly on top of it. The amber lamp was on as if the room had been waiting for him to come back. Sam looked across the room, taking in the smaller details, noting how barely anything had changed. It felt…wrong. So much had changed in him; how could anything ever be the same? His heart thrummed, picking up its pace as he moved across the room, looking down at his desk. His memory box was sat on top of the desk, more battered than he remembered. Opening the lid, he saw all his mementos were mixed up: things he knew he wouldn't have looked at for years sitting at the top while the more recent additions had gone to the bottom.

Blood began to roar in his head.

Closing the lid, he moved the box to the side, his fingers skimming across the tops of his diaries. Another memory, unbidden, unwanted, forced its way to the surface.

 _I can't trust him. There's something strange in the looks he gives me when he thinks I'm not looking. Something deep, dark. Unsettling. I can't put my finger on it, but whenever I catch that look, it sends a chill through me. He did everything he could to help with the detox – I know that – but something just feels so wrong. Even Cas has been abnormally quiet around him. I know how I_ should _feel around Dean, he's my brother, my best friend, but I don't feel that way – not at the moment. The more I'm around him, the worse I feel. I need to get out. If I don't…I don't know. There's only one other person who's ever made me feel this way: Lucifer._

They hadn't been his words. He didn't write like that. Yet, he'd been so quick to believe what he'd read.

 _You were at the end of your detox. Your brain was mush._

The voice was logical, but that didn't make it right and, with a sudden jolt, realisation struck through him. Thomas had been there. He'd invaded the bunker: violated Sam's home. Written in his diary.

He'd taken everything. He still was.

The blood snarled in his ears and suddenly it wasn't panic rushing through his veins, but white-hot anger. A howl of rage burst forth as he snatched up the desk chair and flung it.

oOo

"I dunno, Cas, maybe this wasn't –" A loud bang resounded down the hall and the two looked at each other. Dean dropped his beer, the distant sound of it smashing on the tiles echoing in his ears as he raced down the corridor. Time slowed. He ran faster. Every step turned into a minute and fear pooled into every corner of his mind.

Sliding to a halt outside of Sam's door, he shouldered it open, the wooden smacking back against the brick. He barely had time to register the lamp as it sailed towards him. Ducking in a split second, Dean barrelled into the mess, stumbling over splintered wood and the upturned bed. Sam had a chair leg raised in both hands, bringing it down, again and again onto the memory box, pounding into the metal.

"Sam! Hey! Stop, Sammy! Stop!" Dean shouted, grappling to get a hold of the chunk of wood, grabbing Sam's upper arms in both hands when he couldn't reach it.

"Get off me!" Sam snarled, trying to snatch away from his touch. He twisted and fought, but Dean held on, managing to loop his arms around his brother's arms and torso, stopping him from smashing away at the desk anymore with the chair leg. All the while, Sam shouted and roared, unable or unwilling to hear the murmurings of comfort that Dean was saying.

"Sammy, it's okay, it's okay. I'm here, I'm not gonna leave you. It's okay," Dean repeated over and over as his brother struggled.

 _I'm not gonna leave you._

A choked sob welled in Sam's throat as the words finally sank in and he stopped thrashing, the wood falling from his grasp and clattering on the floor. His knees buckled, his energy spent and they both went down, crumpling on the floor together. But still Dean didn't let go. He knelt behind his brother, one arm wrapped around him, the other resting in his hair, his cheek pressed to the side of Sam's head as he knelt there, rocking him as he cried.

"It's okay, Sammy. I got you. I've always got you."

oOo

 **I'm kinda sad to see Ketch go! Silly Griff thinking he'd be okay…**

 **Please review!**


	16. Winchester Therapy

**I totally, 110% suck and I am so so sorry! Life has got in the way too much in the last month what with work, Christmas prep, illness and a general lack of brainpower to produce anything halfway decent. A lot of excuses, I know, but thank you so much to everyone who has stuck with me and the boys on this journey!**

oOo

 _"You're always in the dark:_

 _I am your light."_

 _\- Think, Kaleida_

oOo

 **Lebanon, Kansas**

 _"Sam, honey, you need to calm down and stop. We're not gonna hurt you," Jody insisted, her hands spread wide, blocking the way to the main entrance. He had to get past her; she wanted to hurt him. They all did. It was all a trick._

"No," Sam moaned, languishing in his own agony. His hands clutched his head, threaded through his hair as he curled up on his side, tucking his head in as though that would save him from the memories. He'd been so afraid, so driven by his panic. Being back in the bunker was flooding him with memories that he didn't want to relive. Not because of what had happened, but because of all the things he hadn't seen before.

He's thought she was blocking him: trying to pen him in. But her hands had been raised defensively: She'd been trying to soothe him, but there had been such fear in her eyes. He'd seen it before – but never when she'd looked at him. The thought sent him spiralling further and the more he tried to stop seeing her face, the more vivid it became behind his eyelids.

He cringed into himself, wishing he could just disappear into nothing.

oOo

Dean threw another shard of wood onto the mounting pile by the door. Bending down, he heaved the bed back upright, setting it back on its four legs. Cas scooped up the fallen sheets, placing them gently on the bed. They'd been cleaning up the room, trying to bring some semblance of normality back to it again. Not that it could be the same; Sam had managed to destroy almost everything in his rampage. At least the bunker had an excess of furniture so replacing what had been broken wasn't a problem.

Fixing his broken brother wasn't getting any easier though.

"Maybe it was too soon to come back," Dean murmured as he knelt down, picking up shards of glass from the amber lampshade, the tinkling of them falling into the garbage bag ringing in the quiet.

"You can't think that way Dean; this was always going to be hard. At least he didn't hurt himself," Cas replied, worry creasing into his brow.

"I just…I don't know what to do, Cas. There ain't no manual for this. I know we've fixed each other in the past, but…never like this. It's never been _this_ _bad_. I feel like everythin' I try pushes him further away," Dean replied, keeping his eyes focused on the floor, on his task. If he met Cas' eyes now, he'd lose it. He couldn't. "Seein' him like that…it scares the hell outta me, Cas." His gazed flickered up briefly to the angel, shame colouring his cheeks. "Sammy doesn't lose it like that; he's not the angry one. He's the sit-and-brood-til-it-gets-better one."

"A lot has changed for him, though. Sam needs to find himself again. That's going to take time and him doing a lot of things that he probably wouldn't normally do," Cas pointed out as he pushed the wardrobe back against the wall with one hand.

"Yeah, I know. I just don't have to like it," Dean growled softly. He couldn't say it, but he'd actually been almost… _glad_ that Sam had had that moment. And it made him feel guilty as hell. In that moment, Sam had needed him; he'd let Dean in. Not with words, but he'd let him get close and hold him together while he fell apart. It was the tiniest win built on a mounting ruin but Dean took it. It was the only thing he could do. "I just wish I knew why he did it – what's really goin' on in his head."

Because that was the crux of it. What had caused Sam's outburst and subsequent withdrawal could be any number of things that Dean could name, but it could also be something he hadn't figured out yet. Until Sam opened up, until he talked to him, Dean was in the dark, stabbing around, looking for answers that weren't there.

It hadn't escaped Dean's notice that Sam wouldn't use his name. In the three days they'd been together, he hadn't uttered 'Dean' once. The elder Winchester had never known how much it would hurt to have it avoided; they said each other's names unconsciously dozens of times a day. He didn't want to think about what it meant, but he knew, deep down, that Sam wasn't convinced he was the real Dean.

And that was a hurt that Dean would drown in a bottle later when he knew Sam was settled for the night. _If_ he settled.

Dean would just have to wait and see.

oOo

The days passed and Dean continued his dance on eggshells, trying his best to be there for his brother, constantly worrying that he was getting it wrong, despite the fact that Sam never said anything to confirm or deny those feelings. He tempered the outbursts and weathered the silences, never reprimanding, never pushing.

Never feeling like he was getting anywhere.

He'd straightened out Sam's room, but the younger Winchester hadn't gone back to it, instead choosing to stay in one of the guest rooms further down the hall, further away from Dean's room. The elder brother noticed with a pang of hurt, but said nothing. There was nothing he could say. He called Missouri, he called Jody, keeping both updated on the complete lack of progress he was making.

Through it all, Sam kept to himself, only interacting in small bursts with either himself or Cas. The grand plan to get him home and let that help fix him didn't seem to be working.

Dean wandered through to the library, having checked on Sam by walking past his room – again – without a word, feeling aimless. He'd even resorted to cleaning the kitchen. Twice. His fingers itched for a gun, for a case, to be useful, but he couldn't leave.

"Hey," he greeted, finding Cas sat on the side of the long table, his eyes glued to Dean's laptop. For once, Dean wasn't worried about what the angel would find – it wasn't like he'd been at the computer recently for…months, really. He swallowed. When this was over – properly over – he was going to find a decent bar and open arms that belonged to a girl he'd never see again. The thought was shoved aside when the angel looked up at him. "What you workin' on?"

"I was looking at what Ketch left behind."

"Wait…that douchebag left somethin' on _my_ laptop?!" Dean growled, his eyes narrowing. Cas moved his chair so that he sat at an angle to the table, silently gesturing for the Winchester to sit with him as he turned the laptop so that he could see.

"We were preoccupied when we first got back and I moved the laptop and the case he'd left to the side. I'd forgotten about it until today," the angel explained, sliding a piece of paper over to Dean who gazed down at the slanted, elegant handwriting.

 _Dean,_

 _Everything you'll need to track Lucifer is on your laptop. I've left you my Hyperbolic Pulse Generator. The instructions are in the case._

 _\- A. Ketch_

Dean frowned, looking up at the laptop and then to Cas.

"Is he serious? Did he actually find a way to track Lucifer?"

"I believe so," Cas nodded, "it would appear he's made a specific algorithm that constantly collates any and all information relating to signs of Lucifer. We can track him to the nearest city, possibly even the nearest block, depending where he is."

"Son of a bitch," Dean exclaimed quietly. He didn't have the knowhow to even try and create a program like that – that was Sam's territory – and he needed Cas in the bunker, not off in Heaven where he was out of reach. There was a large part of him that was terrified of something, anything, happening to Sam. More than that, he needed someone he could talk to, now more than ever. That he would have to rely on something that the scheming Man of Letters had cooked up didn't sit well with him at all, but it was all he had.

He just didn't have to like it and he definitely wouldn't be thanking Ketch any time soon.

"What's in the case?" he asked, eyeballing the hard, black rectangle on the floor beside the angel. Cas bent down and picked it up, snapping open the two clasps. He lifted the lid and slid it over to Dean. The hunter's brow crinkled in confusion as he picked up a large golden egg.

"Do I even wanna know where this came from?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow. Castiel rolled his eyes, but he was glad to see the glimmer of humour in the Winchester again.

"The engravings are Enochian. As far as I can tell, this is used to exorcise demons."

Dean's eyes widened.

"Would it work on an angel?"

"Ketch must seem to think so or he wouldn't have left it with us," Cas confirmed as Dean put the egg back in the foam padding of the case.

"Okay, so we know we can track him, get close to him and evict him from the meatsuit he's holed up in. But then what? He'll still be out there; he'll still be a threat," Dean pointed out, his gaze hard and thoughtful as he closed the lid of the case.

"So we find a way to get him back in the Cage – permanently this time," Cas replied, his voice harder than usual, making Dean glance up. So much had happened in the last few months that sometimes he forgot the damage Lucifer had inflicted on the lower ranking angel. There was no end to the cruelty the Devil had wreaked on all of Team Free Will. And yet, Sam was still the one to suffer the most. The thought of letting him anywhere near the archangel…

Dean couldn't face it. Not yet. The time would come, but it wasn't today.

The bang of a metal door caught his attention, pulling his gaze to the hallway.

"The hell?" he mumbled, pushing himself up out of the chair, the wood creaking beneath him. Cas made to rise too, but the hunter held out his hand, motioning for him to stay. He padded noiselessly across the library and down the corridor. Another thud steered him to the door leading downstairs to the gun range. It was ajar and the lights were on. Pulling it open, Dean descended, his boots thudding on the concrete steps.

Sam's head jerked up when he came down and stopped in the doorway. Dean's brown creased, his hands sliding into the pockets of his jeans. He dropped his hold on the door to the gun locker, the look of guilt catapulting Dean back to their childhood when he's caught Sam playing with his .45 calibre Colt.

Embarrassment surged up through the younger Winchester, heating his cheeks as he looked away from the hunter. He felt like he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't. _This is supposed to be your home too._

"You okay, Sammy?" Dean asked cautiously, watching Sam as he looked away, his face flushed. Curiosity hooked through Dean, pulling him off the final step and into the gun range.

"I…I just wanted to…y'know…" Sam's hands shoved themselves into his pockets and suddenly he looked sixteen again: sheepish and lost, not knowing what he wanted and hating the idea of disappointing his brother, "…to practice. But the guns are gone."

 _Oh_.

Guilt nagged at Dean as he once again failed to see his brother's needs, but it pooled in his stomach when he knew that he'd been found out. He ran a hand back through his hair.

"Sorry, Sam, I put them away, in case…y'know…" he trailed off, the guilt a lump in his throat that choked off his sentence.

Understanding dawned in Sam, bringing with it a mixture of fear tinged with shame. If he'd looked through the bunker, he'd probably find the all guns decorating his brother's room and the ones hidden throughout the building gone: locked out of reach.

"You didn't trust me," Sam whispered, not meaning to sound as hurt as he felt. He cleared his throat, trying again for nonchalance when Dean opened his mouth. "No, I get it. I'd have done the same."

"I've always trusted you, Sammy, you know that. But, it's been a…rough couple of days. I was just bein' safe," Dean explained, earnestly. "I was gonna put them back soon."

"It's okay. You don't need to explain," Sam lifted one shoulder in a tired shrug, sliding his gaze down and away. He couldn't bear to look at the hunter's crestfallen expression.

"Look, just…wait there. I'll be back in a sec," Dean insisted before turning and running back up the stairs, leaving the younger Winchester alone again. Sam sighed, his shoulders sagging as he leaned back against one of the walls dividing the different shooting lanes. So much for not drawing attention to himself. Guilt kept trying to suck him under but each time it reared up, he shoved it down again. Between that and his almost constant state of fear, he was exhausted almost all the time. When he did sleep, his mind was full of nightmares, leaving him more drained when he woke. He couldn't keep feeling like this.

He wanted it to get easier.

The exhaustion had ignited an intense rush of frustration. He didn't want to be the victim; he had to reclaim his life! They'd been back in the bunker for a few days and he already felt caged again. The elder Winchester tried to be inconspicuous with his hovering but Sam knew he was there – could feel him watching. But he could also sense the hunter's worry. It spread through the halls like a fog, lingering wherever Sam was. If he was still Lucifer, he was putting on one hell of a show. And yet, Sam was beginning to doubt it even more.

Lucifer wasn't that patient, not really.

The insecurities, the doubts and the claustrophobia had finally got too much, again, driving the Winchester downstairs to the gun range. He just need to _do_ something – something where he was in control, where he could find a bit of release. Shooting had seemed like a good idea. That was, until he found the cabinet empty.

Footsteps thumped again and Dean reappeared, rushing down at the same speed he'd disappeared with. Clutched to his chest, he balanced Sam's 9mm Taurus and three boxes of bullets. He crossed the room towards Sam, who resisted the urge to step backwards.

 _Stop it. He's trying to help you. If Lucifer wanted to hurt you, he wouldn't use a gun._

The hunter put the boxes of ammunition on the counter, holding out the Taurus to Sam. Swallowing, Sam reached out a hand and took it, feeling the familiar weight of the gun in his right palm. A wave of nostalgia slammed into him, sucking the air from his lungs before a surge of calm let him breathe again, the pearl grip warming in his palm.

Dean felt his heart flutter as Sam took the gun, his grey eyes widening, lips pursing, nostrils flaring. Taken aback, Dean watched in surprise as the lingering fear that had stayed in the depths of his brother's eyes dissipated, leaving his look clear for the first time since they'd been reunited.

"Sammy?"

Sam looked up from the gun to the hunter, the tiniest of smiles reassuring his lips. It felt foreign.

"I'm okay. I feel…better. Weirdly."

"Nothin' like a bit of familiarity to make you feel right," Dean grinned encouragingly. "How about you shoot a few rounds? Get your game back."

Looking over to the small black box, Sam pushed off the wall and turned to it, putting the gun down to open the box. Dean watched, holding his breath. When he'd gone upstairs, Cas had given him a look that he glared off, barking at the angel to stay upstairs. Dean knew the risks of giving his unstable brother a loaded weapon, but it was something he had to do – had to try. Nothing else was working and desperation had been pouring from Sam like a storm surge: he needed to be able to do something. The last thing Dean wanted was for Sam to run again and, if he didn't find an outlet, there was every chance that he would. The hunter couldn't take that risk. Besides, Sam wouldn't hurt him. He was certain of it.

Mostly.

The chamber clicking home, followed by the snap of the gun being cocked, broke the silence that had built over the humming of the lights, Sam's concentration fully on the weapon. Dean stepped back, giving his brother room as he stepped up to the mark. His heart thrummed as he waited.

Sam stared ahead, focusing on the black outline of the target sheet, slowing his breathing until his chest rose and fell evenly, calm centring his mind as it radiated up his arms from the gun he held in both hands, his left cupped around his right to steady it. Planting his feet, he raised his arms, aiming the gun. It was the first time he'd held a weapon in…months. He was a Winchester: he'd had a gun since he was nine years old – he'd never gone so long without using one. Except for his Stanford years, but, even then, he'd still carried.

Tightening his grip, Sam breathed out and let the shot loose.

Dean bit back a satisfied grin, leaning back against the pillar and crossing his arms. He watched the tension fall out of Sam's shoulders as the gun kicked back after he pulled the trigger. Glancing over to the target, he saw that he'd hit the upper K3-D4 – the target's right bicep. It wasn't a bad shot for a first go in months. Any other time, he would've made a sarcastic remark, the kind that would make Sam frown, roll his eyes and fire a better second shot, but they weren't there yet. He swallowed the words, content to just watch silently.

The kickback left a slight tingle in Sam's palms, but the release felt like he'd thrown open a door, letting a little piece of his old life back in. The shot gave him a sense of power, of responsibility. No one else was in control.

Only him.

Sam stole a look to his left, to the hunter. Dean smiled encouragingly at him, but said nothing, giving him space. Giving him time. For that, Sam was grateful.

Turning his gaze back to the target, he fired again, getting used to the gun's balance. A third shot reverberated around the range and Sam's concentration intensified. He got better with each shot, honing it, feeding off the power it gave him. Slowly the target morphed, the black silhouette changing, becoming real until it was Thomas who stood at the end of the range. His grip tightened. He was not powerless. He was not a victim: he would fight.

Sam shot again. And again. And again.

Dean watched his baby brother fire round after round, his frown deepening, his jaw clenching, fixing the target with a glare so intense that it bordered on frightening. The elder Winchester looked to the target sheet, his eyebrows lifting when he saw that the head was in tatters, ripped through by Sam's countless rounds. The chamber would empty and, automatically, Sam would fill it and start over.

He didn't stop him; it wasn't his place. There were many inner demons that Dean had destroyed by standing in this very bay: he knew what Sam was doing even if he couldn't see what his little brother did. It was Winchester Therapy 101. Dean just hoped it worked.

Finally, Sam pulled the trigger and the Taurus clicked empty. His arms fell to the counter, his right still gripping the gun, his head bowing as he leaned forward. Dean wanted to step forward, to rest a hand on his shoulder, but fought the urge. Sam may have taken another step in the right direction, but that didn't mean he was okay. As much as it hurt, Dean knew he had to let Sam make the first move with him, even if that was simply calling him by his name.

"Better?"

Sam nodded at the question, not yet ready to lift his head or let go of the countertop; he could feel the tremble in his arms and he didn't want to show it. He needed to cling onto what he'd achieved for just a little bit longer.

"It's okay to let it out, y'know," Dean murmured quietly. _I wish you'd talk to me_ , rested on the tip of his tip but he couldn't say it. No more than Sam could confide in him.

"I know. And it helped – it did," Sam replied, straightening up, but keeping his eyes on the target and away from the hunter. "I just…holing up here for the rest of time isn't gonna make this better. I can't live like this – not knowing what's real, what isn't - whether I can believe what people say or not. I… need proof. Something – anything that will tell me, one way or the other."

"What if –" god he couldn't believe he was about to say it "– we could get proof?" As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Dean hated himself. Hated that he was knowingly putting his brother in a dangerous situation.

 _I won't let anything happen. Not this time._

Sam finally turned to look at him, confusion knitting his brow.

"How?"

The hunter stood up straight, away from the wall, his arms uncrossing as he shoved his hands in his jeans pockets again. He looked uncomfortable which only made Sam more curious. His interest was the only thing that helped him look directly into the worried green eyes before him.

"We've found a way to track Lucifer – the real Lucifer. If we found him…" Dean couldn't finish. He wished he hadn't started. It was a terrible plan. It was a sucky idea and it was way too dangerous.

"I would know," Sam finished for him, his words barely above a whisper as the hunter looked away, ashamed. Terror rushed back through him and he fought to control it, fighting the urge to curl up where he stood. It was a terrible idea – going and confronting the Devil. It would be beyond dangerous.

 _Or you can stay here, cowering in the bunker for the rest of your life._

"Do it." Dean's gaze snapped back to Sam, his eyes widening as he watched his baby brother fight to control himself. The look in his eyes swung from abject terror to resolute determination. Finally, it settled on the latter.

"We're gonna put an end to this."

oOo

 **Apologies if there were any inaccuracies regarding the gun range/guns. I have no experience of either! I promise to not take as long with the next update!**

 **Please review!**


	17. Far From Home

**Thanks for all the love, guys! A belated Merry Christmas and a very Happy New Year to you all, my wonderful readers!**

oOo

 _"Some time I'll have to face the real me."_

 _\- I Apologise, Five Finger Death Punch_

oOo

 **Lebanon, Kansas**

The squeal and bang of the Impala's front doors echoed around the bunker's garage, followed by the thud of the trunk as Dean placed the cooler box into it. He stayed where he was for a moment, hands resting on the cool metal, letting the car centre him. With a pang, he realised that Sam had ensconced himself in the backseat again, rather than in his usual place in the front. Next to him.

 _Give him time._

He'd had so much already. They'd waited another two weeks, planning this trip, getting everything ready, trying to make it as fool-proof as possible. That hadn't taken the time though. Despite his initial determination, getting Sam on an even emotional keel strong enough to even leave the bunker had taken time.

Some days Sam had be out and around in their home, not quite himself, but the closest he'd been since before he'd been taken. He'd initiate conversations, no matter how trivial or short, and, in those moments, Dean was grateful. Yet the conversations were always based on their hunt or small, meaningless things. Sam never once spoke about what had happened or how he felt. The more he bottled it up, the more concerned Dean got; his little brother always vented eventually but this silence was going on too long. Sam was ticking and it wouldn't be long before he exploded. Dean just had to hope it wasn't when they'd put their plan into action. It was dangerous enough without Sam becoming unhinged again and that was a likely scenario for the youngest Winchester too.

Most of the days though, he would hide away, staying in his room, silent, brooding and, at times, almost catatonic. Nothing Dean could say would make him leave the safety of the room during those moments and every time he went in, Sam would stare up at him with wide-eyed abject terror that left him permanently exhausted. In those moments, as much as it pained him to see his brother suffer, Dean had to leave him, knowing that his presence was what was causing it.

Those were the times that he found solace in the bottom of a bottle. That was what the cooler was for; he wasn't going to get through this trip entirely sober and he couldn't leave Sam to go to a bar.

Now, he stared at the back of his baby brother's head, watched him run both hands back through his hair, pushing it back of his eyes – it hadn't been so long since Dean had got back from Purgatory – and Dean prayed that he would make it through this. They had nothing else they could try.

"Dean?" He snapped from his reverie as Cas called to him softly, concerned blue meeting his head on. "Are you alright?"

Dean cocked a half-smile. "Let's go." He pushed away from the trunk, walking down the side of Baby to the driver's door. Cas frowned at him over the roof but said nothing, opening the passenger side and getting in as the elder Winchester slid inside too. Dean half-turned to Sam, giving a reassuring smile. "You ready, Sammy?"

"As I'll ever be," Sam breathed out the words, his thumb digging into his palm so hard it almost hurt. He watched as Dean turned and started the car, the familiar rumble vibrating through the younger Winchester as they set off. The back of the Impala felt claustrophobic despite its familiarity and he clenched his eyes shut before they reached the entrance to the garage. He wished he'd had Dean's ability to hum songs to help him stay calm, but it had never worked for him, despite the number of times he'd tried as a child. Always trying to be like his older brother.

He sucked in a ragged breath through his nose, letting the scent of the Impala fill his head, smoothing the edges off the anxiety that rattled through his nerves. Loathing filled him at the way they began to calm; he hated himself, more than he thought was possible. And the feeling grew every day. With every setback, every moment he was drenched in terror, the hatred grew. This wasn't getting better; he wasn't stronger. There were flashes of moments, but they were fleeting.

Forcing his eyes open, Sam clenched his jaw and made himself look out of the window to his left, the hunter in full view. He would _make_ himself stronger. Kill or cure: there were no other paths for him anymore.

The Impala remained silent, except for the low thrum of Black Sabbath's _Into the Void_ easing through the silence. Dean glanced in the rear-view mirror more than usual, his green eyes flicking to Sam's face every time. The younger Winchester's frown was heavy and thoughtful: full of concentration and, mixed with the stubborn set of his jaw, it was a look that Dean had seen a thousand times. It was never a look that brought comfort. Sam was battling with himself, his fight silent to the outside world but Dean knew the kind of turmoil his little brother would be putting himself through. Before, he would have be able to draw out of him what was going on in his head, but all the coaxing Dean had tried over the last two weeks had got him nowhere. Now they had hundreds of miles ahead of them with only the drowning silence to accompany them.

With a mounting sense of trepidation, Dean pressed his foot down harder, the Impala growling beneath his touch.

oOo

 **I-80E, Outskirts of Lincoln, Nebraska**

Rain had started to drizzle in thin sheets when Dean pulled the Impala into the forecourt of the Gas'N'Sip. It dripped lazily off the sides of the roof, creating a distinct dry square on the ground that the Impala's tyres splashed over. Dean slowed it, pulling up at a pump near the exit, cutting the ignition.

"You want anythin'?" Dean asked, glancing over at Cas and Sam. Both shook their heads. He grasped the handle, about to open the door.

"Wait." Sam's voice was soft and made the eldest Winchester pause. He turned further in his seat, giving Sam his full attention. The younger brother looked pensive, his jaw clenched and his eyes trained through the window at the building. Slowly, Dean watched him exhale the breath he'd caught and held, the stone grey of Sam's eyes sliding across to look at him. "I'll go."

Dean blinked, taken aback.

"You sure?" he heard the doubt in his own voice and cursed himself. Sam hadn't been out of the bunker for two weeks and he'd been terrified of contact with other people – Missouri had told him as much.

"Yeah," Sam affirmed, his answer more of a breath than a word. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I need to try, anyway. I can't keep hiding."

Dean nodded, giving him a reassuring smile. "You want me to come with anyway?"

"No, I got it." The door squealed as Sam grabbed the handle and pushed it open, sliding out before he could change his mind. He could feel both sets of eyes following him as he strode across the forecourt, his hands shoved in his jeans pockets, fingers wrapping around his wallet. Getting to the door, Sam rested his hand on the cool metal of the handle and breathed.

 _I can do this._

"I wasn't expecting that," Cas commented as they watched Sam go into the empty shop after a brief pause at the door.

"I don't think he was either," Dean murmured softly, feeling another small piece of normalcy fall loosely into place. He turned to look at the angel. "Maybe this trip will be good for him."

"If we survive the end," Cas replied darkly. Dean rolled his eyes, but the set of his mouth was grim.

"We beat him before; we can do it again." He pushed open the door before Cas could reply, circling around to the back of the car, unscrewing the fuel cap. Glancing back over to the window, he saw the clerk focused on Sam whose head was bowed over the counter. Finally, Sam straightened, gave a single nod to the clerk and turned again, leaving Dean to lift the gas nozzle and jam it in.

They lived in a world of small steps; this was one. The next might backwards, but for the moment, he was content, watching his brother step out of the shop, hands shoved in his jacket, shoulders hunched forwards, a grim smile of satisfaction on his face.

Just for a little while, Dean let a small spark of optimism in.

oOo

 **Outskirts of Des Moines, Iowa**

 _"Would you like a drink, Samuel?"_

Bile rose in Sam's throat at the memory of Anna's voice, her tone snide and nasal. His eyes snapped open, wide, fearful, expecting to see nothing behind the blindfold he'd been made to wear. Raising a hand, he touched along the side of his face, moved upwards, feeling nothing – no cloth, no blindfold of any kind on his face – realising that it had been a memory, nothing more, before the movement dragged itself into a slide of his fingers through his hair.

 _She's not there. She's dead. She can't hurt you anymore._

The hunter voice within him whispered through his mind, curling itself around his senses, easing the pounding of his heart. Sam blinked, hard, finally taking in the back of the Impala again. The hunter and the angel sat in front of him, the world beginning to dim outside of the car. He'd drifted off and hadn't even realised it, but the rocking of the car and his semi-consciousness state had dredged up the memory, somehow bringing the stench of Anna's cloying perfume into his senses, making him want to throw up.

 _Hold it together. Just for a little longer_.

"This'll do."

Sam's head snapped around as Dean's voice broke the silence, the Impala turning off the round.

"Where are we?" he asked, his voice raspy and thick.

"Des Moines – Motel 6," Dean replied as he pulled the car into an empty space outside a row of rooms that were all unlit despite dusk settling in early through the rain. The hunter half-turned towards him. "We've still got a ways to go and I figure we could all do with a decent place to get some shuteye."

 _You need to rest_ was the unspoken message behind the hunter's statement. Sam couldn't say that he wasn't at least a bit relieved. As much as the idea of staying in a motel sent a pool of dread through his stomach, he wasn't sure how much longer he could cope cooped up in the back of the Impala. His nerves were frazzled.

"Wait here; I'll go get us a room," Dean instructed, making to get out of the car.

"Could you…"

Dean stopped, again, surprised at the hesitation in his brother's voice. Again, he turned to look at the younger Winchester who held a mix of worry and embarrassment in the pained lines of his face. He lifted uncomfortable grey eyes up to meet Dean's. "I wake you up every time I have a nightmare. I don't want to do that. Could you…could you get two rooms?"

 _Three steps back._

Dean kept his expression carefully locked down, keeping the half-cocked smile on his face.

"Sure thing, Sammy." He lurched up out of the car, walking briskly away from it without looking back. For a moment, as he crossed the parking lot, he let the mask slip, the agony that radiated from his chest etching into the downward curve of his mouth. Dean knew when his little brother was lying and the nightmares were an excuse. Sam couldn't give the real reason, but he didn't need to: he was afraid to sleep in the same room as Dean. Despite nothing happening for the last two weeks, nothing that would suggest Dean was anything but genuine, Sam still couldn't trust him. And that hurt more than any bullet could.

"Hi! Welcome to Motel 6!" The chipper exclamation made the hunter start; he'd drifted into the reception without even realising his feet had taken him there. The blonde girl's smile dimmed, her eyebrows scrunching in bewildered concern. "Sir, are you alright?"

"I'm fine," he flashed a dead smile, pulling out his credit card. "Two adjacent rooms, ground floor."

"S-sure," the girl replied, scurrying to grab two sets of keys. She studied the man before her as he filled out the form she slid across the counter. Even in his misery, he was handsome. She wondered what could be so wrong with the world that it could make someone look so sad. He handed over his credit card and she processed it silently before sliding it, and the two room keys, back across the desk. "Rooms nine and ten."

Dean nodded, the keys scraping as he dragged them off the counter and turned away, his shoulders sagging wearily. He just wanted this all to be over.

oOo

Castiel sat, hunched over the laptop, scrolling through Ketch's algorithm with unwavering concentration. He sat at the table next to the window in one of the slightly wobbly wooden chairs. Dean nursed a beer from the cooler across from the angel, his eyes constantly darting out through the window, observing the darkness, making sure that no one went near the door to Sam's room. Rain pelted down, driven by the wind that had picked up, sending it in rough splatters against the window pane.

"We got any idea who Lucifer could be possessin'?" the hunter asked without looking at the angel. Cas pursed his lips, scanning over a few more articles that had popped up on the screen.

"No. I double checked the signs against the local missing reports but nothing has come up yet. That doesn't mean much for us though – he could have picked up his latest vessel in another state or that they're new enough that no one has noticed they're gone yet. If it's the latter, that works more in our favour," Cas explained as Dean glanced over to him, the beer lifted to his lips. "The newer the vessel, the greater the chance of us still finding him in the city in the next few days."

"If it was any other time, I would've ploughed straight on," Dean admitted, his bitten nails scraping at the label on the bottle, his eyes bending back to the darkness beyond the window. "Sam couldn't make it all the way there – not in one hit. You saw how twitchy he was when we got here. I think we stopped just before he reached his limit."

"I agree. He needs to be strong for this. Did you call Crowley?" Cas asked.

"Yeah. He'll meet us there with Rowena. She's pretty pissed at Lucifer – seems he tried to get her to make Vincente a permanent vessel even before he met with the British douchebags. I guess he didn't trust them to follow through after all."

"What did he do to her?"

"Dunno, I didn't ask, but you know Rowena – she can hold one helluva grudge. Least it'll work in our favour this time," Dean huffed, dragging out the final mouthful of his beer. He was silent for a moment, his look pensive. "Seems weird that this is all gonna end in Detroit. I dunno whether that makes it karma or not."

"The Fates do like a certain amount of irony," Cas remarked, making Dean's lips twitch with a grim whisper of a smile.

"When we get there, I want this done quick. Minimal impact on Sam. We get in, get it done, get out."

"Dean, you know that only ever works in theory," Cas pointed out, meeting the glare that was directed towards him head on. "I'm simply saying that we need to expect the unexpected. Our plans with Lucifer have never been straightforward."

"Well, we're gonna make this one straightforward," Dean growled. "We know what we're doin' with that hyperbolic pulse thingy and Lucifer doesn't. For once, he won't actually know what to expect."

"And who's going to use it?"

"Me."

"Don't you think Sam –"

"Cas, Sam is barely holdin' himself together – do you _seriously_ think he's gonna be able to pull that off? We got one shot at this and I'm not gonna let Sam down again."

 _Again_. Cas' eyes lined with sympathy as Dean looked away. He was so driven by guilt. The angel didn't know why he felt surprised – whenever something happened to Sam, the elder Winchester shouldered the guilt for it, even if it wasn't his fault. They both needed closure from everything that had happened.

The wooden legs of the chair scraped against the floor as Dean stood up, his hand brushing over the colt that he'd shoved in the back of his jeans. "It's gettin' late. I'm gonna check on Sam."

The hunter stepped out of the room into the cool night air, the wind whipping rain around him, the cold droplets hammering against his cheeks. He walked to the right, his strides long, stopping outside the door to Sam's room. The curtains were drawn, but Dean could see the glow of lights around the edges. He raised his hand, preparing to knock, stopping himself for a moment. The rain smacked against his back, hitting like nails, turning the red of his shirt a dark burgundy as he collected himself. He didn't know which version of his brother he was going to find beyond the door and he had to be prepared to be anything from unerringly patient to retreating without comment straightaway. If he was honest with himself, Dean wasn't sure which scenario he preferred.

 _Get a grip._

He rapped his knuckles against the door, guiding the key into the lock with the other. Sam had given him the key, knowing he wouldn't go out on his own, but wanting the security of being able to lock himself in. The knocking was simply a courtesy.

"Sam? It's just me," he called as he opened it, doing it slowly, poking his head around the door. He frowned, his eyes scanning the empty room. The bathroom door was open, the table by the window vacant. "Sammy?" he repeated, stepping into the room fully and shutting the door. It was identical to his own room, right down to the ugly brown carpet, the beige wallpaper with faded red flowers and the maroon bedcovers. Twin amber lamps lit the space, leaving dark shadows in the corners.

Looking around, Dean's eyes widened when he finally spotted his baby brother. The taller man had wedged himself into the corner, pushing the bed further away from him, giving him room to stretch out his long legs. Not that he had. The younger Winchester had curled himself up into a ball, his left arm hugging his knees, his forehead resting on them. Dean approached him carefully, confusion knitting his brows.

"Sammy? You feelin' okay?" he asked softly, edging closer. Sam lifted his head up, his eyes bleary and unfocused, his hair flopping across his forehead.

"I'm fine," he mumbled, his words slurred.

"What're you…?" Dean started to ask, before his brother's right hand caught his eye. "Ah, hell, Sammy." He sighed heavily, turning and easing himself down the wall next to his brother, plucking the half empty bottle from his loose grip. Dean lifted it up, eyeing the whiskey. "When'd you sneak this from?"

"Gas station," Sam replied, lifting his head up, letting it fall back against the wall behind him. He blinked slowly, watching Dean as the hunter took a swig.

"Not like you to be the drunk one," Dean chuffed, passing the bottle back. Sam took it, taking a smaller sip than his brother.

"Didn't think I would. Just wanted somethin' to take t'edge off," Sam replied, his head lolling to the right so that he could see the hunter. He huffed a mirthless chuckle. "Forgot I haven't had a drink in months. Tolerance has gone to shit."

"I'll say. Your head's gonna hurt in the mornin'," Dean observed, taking the bottle back for another mouthful. He wasn't going to stop Sam now – there wasn't any point.

"Doesn't matter," Sam sighed, swallowing hard. "I kinda expect it these days."

"You want me to go?" Dean asked softly, relieved when his little brother shook his head.

"You don't have to. Not much company though."

"You know that doesn't matter, Sammy. Never has," Dean answered, watching his brother drink again. They fell into silence, just sitting together, drinking, staring at the rain splattering against the window across from them.

The whiskey dulled Sam's senses, making everything feel thick and heavy. He hadn't lied – he'd had no intention of getting drunk, but the fire of the alcohol as it burned down his throat made him feel warm when the loneliness had collapsed inwards, cloaking him in a smothering blanket of cold that had started to rot away at his core. The scent of the cheap drink had brought back older memories, ones from long ago. Memories of sitting in Bobby's kitchen, of nights lying on the hood of the Impala. Good memories that he'd almost started to forget.

 _I don't want to forget_.

"Forget what?" The question made him jump when he realised he'd said it out loud.

"The good things," he replied, rubbing a hand across the stubble that peppered his cheek. "Bowling on the war room table. Arguments over liquorice. The little things."

Dean kept his gaze forwards, not daring to look straight at his brother, fearful that he'd scare him into silence. He could see him in his peripheral vision though, his head drooping forwards, his too-long hair tucked behind his ears.

"Why would you forget them?"

"There's just…so much bad. I don't…I don't feel like me anymore. The good things make me remember who I was. If I forget them, I lose. I won't have anything left."

 _You have me_. Dean wanted to say it so badly, but the words caught in his throat. He took another long drink drowning them.

"I don't wanna feel this way. I don't wanna be scared anymore."

"What're you scared of?" Dean asked, prompting Sam gently when he fell silent. If he wanted answers out of his brother, he realised that this was the moment he was going to get them. Drunk Sam had always had a looser tongue than his sober counterpart. Yet, Sam was quiet for so long that Dean didn't think he was going to answer. His reply was soft and sad, tearing Dean apart.

"Thomas. Lucifer. Never being okay. You."

Dean bit his lip, hating the admission, but knowing that he needed to hear it. Despite everything he'd tried, his brother was still afraid of him. Maybe that was never going to get better.

"I know what you're thinking and you're wrong." Dean turned to look at him at that moment, eyes widening to see the welling tears in his brother's reddening eyes. "I want this to be real so much it hurts. I can't live with all this doubt for the rest of my life. I'm afraid of going up against Lucifer."

"I'm not gonna let him hurt you, Sammy. I promise."

"You can't promise that – you don't know what's gonna happen. But I appreciate the sentiment; it's what Dean would say too," Sam gave a sad half-smile, his tears beginning to fall. Dean felt his heart ache, knowing then that Sam still didn't believe in him. The urge to run was overwhelming, his desire for his brother to open up to him long gone. He didn't want to hear this. But he had too. "That's not why I'm scared. I've been hurt plenty; they can't do any more to me than they've already done."

"What, then? What're you scared of, Sammy?" Dean whispered, his words choked out. Sam's unfocused gaze drifted away from him, glued itself forwards as his throat worked.

"This." His hand waved between them. Confusion etched itself across Dean's face as he watched his brother choking on the truth he'd been bottling up for weeks. "I'm afraid of what this is. If this…if this _is_ all real, how do I live with that? The things I've done – to Jody, to Cas, to _you_ …" Grey eyes turned on him, the depth of their pain so profound that Dean felt tears fall onto his own cheeks. "I've made your life hell. I've spent months convinced you were dead, hiding from you, running from you. And I can't deal with the fact that it was all a lie. That I could hurt you like that…" Sam's breath hitched with a pained sob. "Dean, how am I meant to live with that?"

He'd been wrong. So wrong.

He couldn't stop himself.

Dean scooted closer to his baby brother, gathering him into the circle of his arms, drawing him into a hug so tight that he thought he'd break something. Sam's muscles tensed then loosened, his arms looping around his brother's waist, his hold just as tight, his face buried into the crook of his neck as he cried.

All along, he'd been convinced that Sam was afraid of him, thinking he was Lucifer. That he wanted to hurt him. Yet it was so much deeper than that. Dean's guilt was a shallow pool next to his brother's ocean. His detachment, his avoidance of Dean's name – it had all been denial. Because the truth was harder to accept than the lie. To finally have it confirmed that he'd run, that he'd suffered for _no reason_ was too much. For either of them. Dean held on, whispering in his baby brother's ear.

"We'll do it one day at a time, Sammy – you and me. Together. I'm not gonna let you fall. We'll get through it together, same as we always do."

Dean finally had faith. Sam had used his name.

Dean would save his brother.

He would help Sam save himself.

oOo

 **So Sammy's true fear is finally out in the open!**

 **Please review!**


	18. Tear You Down

**Couple of notes: firstly, I obviously do not own the MGM Grand Hotel in Detroit. Secondly, the song for the beginning turned into my soundtrack for this chapter so I do recommend a listen (plus it's an awesome song!).**

 **Buckle your seatbelts: it's gonna be a bumpy ride!**

oOo

 _"I'll tear you down_

 _I'll make you bleed eternally_

 _Can't help myself_

 _From hurting you when it's hurting me_

 _I don't have wings_

 _To fly with me won't be easy_

 _'Cause I'm not an angel."_

 _\- I'm not an Angel, Halestorm_

oOo

 **Outskirts of Des Moines, Iowa**

"Dammit, Sam, I said _no_!"

Sam flinched, fighting the urge to cower. His head throbbed as it was, the hangover from the night before's drunken binge rattling through his head. He watched Dean's expression morph from one of resolute stubbornness to exasperation that tried to hide his concern. He held up his hands in a gesture to placate the younger Winchester.

"I didn't – I'm sorry. I didn't mean to shout at you," Dean apologised, but Sam saw the terror lying underneath the façade he was trying to erect. "But, Sammy, c'mon, putting you up _against Lucifer_ after everythin' that's happened…"

"I have to be the one," Sam interrupted quietly, his eyes imploring as he looked up at his big brother as he rubbed at his temples. Dean opened his mouth to argue, but Sam held up a hand. "Wait. _Please_. Look, I haven't got a death-wish and, honestly, I don't _want_ to be anywhere near him. I really, really don't. But I need…I dunno…closure, I guess. If I do it, I know it's done."

Hurt bubbled in Dean, the stab at the lack of trust twisting its knife in further. He clenched his jaw.

"It's not about trust. It's not about it being _you_ ," Sam whispered, interrupting Dean's spiral into self-doubt. He looked down at his little brother, the taller man sat on the edge of one of the beds, looking incredibly small and…much older than his years. Dean has seen that look before – too many times – and he knew that Sam had always recovered some semblance of his youth after each time, but there was always a new, permanent edge left by the scars of the trauma he'd gone through. And, every time, Dean wished that he could wash them away, erase the hurt, just as his brother was trying to do for him now. Even in his broken state, Sam still knew that Dean would blame himself and the younger Winchester was trying to fix it. "I just…everyone else has controlled everything I do for so long. I need to keep taking that back and this will help me do that."

"Sam is right, Dean," Cas interjected from his seat by the window. Dean sighed and sank down into the chair on the opposite side of the table, leaning forwards, elbows on his knees as he looked over at Sam.

"Okay, fine, but we don't make a move until we're _absolutely_ sure that we've got it right. And if anythin' and I mean _anythin'_ goes wrong, I'm steppin' in. No arguments."

Sam nodded, the ghost of a grim smile whispering across his lips. "That's fair."

"Alright, go get your stuff. We'll suit up and get movin'," Dean instructed, watching as Sam got up and went quietly out of the door to his own room. The memory from the night before was still fresh and raw for both of them, and, while it hurt like hell, Dean had been so glad that Sam had finally opened up. He had something to work with – something he could help fix. For the eldest Winchester, that was the biggest breakthrough he was going to get.

"Are you going to be able to let him do this, Dean?" Cas asked, his eyes piercing and astute. Dean clenched his jaw and shrugged, getting up from his seat. He moved away, grabbing his colt from the nightstand and shoving it in the back of his jeans and tossing his shirt into his duffel bag.

"I meant what I said, Cas: if there's even a hint of it goin' sideways, I'm takin' over. I'll deal with the fallout later. Sam's safety is what matters." Dean stopped, turning to the angel. "I need you to promise me somethin'."

"What?" Cas' response was wary as his eyes narrowed.

"If it does go bad, I want you to make sure you get Sam out first."

Cas' eyebrows shot up before deepening into a livid glare.

"We're only going into this if we have a proper plan, Dean. And we're definitely _not_ going into this without a plan to make sure we _all_ come out. So no, I'm not promising that because it's all or nothing for _all_ of us," he growled, meeting Dean's icy stare head on. The door clicked open behind them.

"What happened?" Sam asked, surprised to see the hunter and angel standing facing off against each other, both tense, both clearly livid.

"Nothing." Dean snarled, tearing his look away from Cas, his frown dropping away as he focused on Sam. "You ready?"

"Let's do this."

oOo

 **Detroit, Michigan**

"For once, Fergus, would it kill you to meet me somewhere other than a rancid cesspit of a warehouse? I _do_ have standards. I know for a fact that there's a charming wee five-star hotel not three blocks from here."

Crowley rolled his eyes, tightening his lips against his mother's expected barrage. His fingers curled into fists inside his overcoat as he turned to face her, a forced grimace edging his lips upwards.

"Yes, mother, I am well aware of your tastes. However, said rancid cesspit happens to give us an excellent vantage point where we can actually do something useful like, I don't know, _watch Lucifer,_ " he snarled, rolling his eyes as Rowena sighed dramatically, her heels clicking across the concrete, the train of her navy dress swishing delicately behind her. "As it happens, I do have a suite booked at that hotel as well."

"And we couldn't do this there why?!" Rowena exclaimed, her glare facing out to the wet streets below.

"Like I said: surveillance. Where Lucifer is, we need to be. The sooner this is over, the sooner we can all go back to making each other's lives a misery," Crowley huffed, moving up beside her to watch.

"Darlin' we never stop doing that," she laughed darkly, crossing her arms. A sidelong glance at his mother sent a rumble of distaste through him. It was moments like these when it would be so easy to snap her neck – properly this time – but she was wily: he needed her and they both knew it. That fact was enough to set the King of Hell's teeth on edge. This was the last time he would swallow his pride for the Winchesters. They were just lucky that he wanted rid of Lucifer as much as they did.

"I take it, when the time comes, that you actually know what you're doing this time?" he goaded.

"Don't worry, Fergus, I'm far more capable than you; this will go exactly how I want it to," she sneered, her lip curling in grim disdain.

"As long as that entails him going back in the Cage, I don't care."

"Oh, believe me, that's exactly where that bastard is going. I don't take being killed lightly. Ruins my complexion for weeks," she moaned, touching her flawless cheekbones delicately with a manicured finger. Crowley rolled his eyes. "Anyway, you still haven't told me who his latest vessel is. I'd like to know whether they're worth saving when we do this. I am on the lookout for my latest conquest, after all."

"Lucky for you, he's just arrived. Judge for yourself," Crowley retorted, his eyes fixed on the black SUV that had pulled up outside the hotel opposite. The distant sound of the fans, who had been stood waiting in the rain, getting drenched, echoed through the glass. They watched as a man in a suit opened the door on the far side, letting out a tall, lean man who stood straight-backed, raising a hand to greet his fans. He wore a black leather jacket and faded blue jeans, his hair peppered a dark grey. Rowena's eyes narrowed as she stared. She watched as he turned sideways to talk to the bodyguard beside him. She gasped.

"You've got to be joking!"

oOo

 **I-94 E, Outskirts of Michigan City, Indiana**

Rain spattered against the windshield, battering it with huge pellets of rain. It had been ceaseless for the last hour and only seemed to be getting worse. The pale afternoon sunlight was weak behind the clouds that banked across the sky, black and threatening. The rain streaked along the sides of the Impala, punctuating the silence within.

Dean drove one-handed, his thumb absently tapping out a tuneless rhythm that couldn't be heard over the roar of the engine. A glance to the right filled him with a sense of satisfied relief that he knew was unjustified – for the moment. Sam sat propped up against the window, his eyes closed and lips parted, his breathing even. The lines of worry, the tension, had all dropped from his face, leaving him with a look younger than his years. The things that aged him always disappeared whenever he slept. Dean should know; he'd watched over his brother enough times. When he looked over, he saw no difference between the man beside him and the fourteen-year-old who would drive to nowhere with him just for the thrill of being out in the car, music blaring, having fun, hanging out. Just wanting to be like his older brother.

It had been Sam's choice to sit up front instead of in the back like the first half of their journey. Dean could tell that Sam hadn't been any more at ease than he had before, but, in true Sam-style, he wanted to push himself, to fight for the control he so desperately wanted. Yet again, the mental strain, this time partnered with his lack of sleep and self-inflicted hangover, proved too much and had him asleep within an hour of being in the car. They'd been driving for five and Dean was inwardly glad that Sam had lost that battle with his body. At least he wasn't sitting worrying about facing Lucifer. He would have plenty of time to do that when he woke.

Dean hated their plan. It was stupid; it sucked. It was barely even a plan and he was kicking himself – again – for saying yes to letting Sam in on it. He couldn't change it, even though he wanted to. The thought of the next few hours sucked the air from his lungs, choking him.

He couldn't lose Sam. Not again.

 _It won't happen. I won't let it._

The buzzing of his phone broke him from his train of thought. Fishing it out of his jacket pocket with one hand, he quickly checked the caller ID, saw the three-digit number and held it out for Cas to take. The angel took the phone, pressing accept and speaker, holding it up between himself and Dean.

"What you got, Crowley?" Dean asked, wincing at having to raise his voice over the rain. He glanced at Sam, saw him starting to stir.

"How far out are you?" Crowley's response was curt and tinny through the small speaker.

"Another two and a half hours, tops," Dean replied.

"Good. When you get here, head to the MGM Grand Hotel on 3rd Avenue. Wear a suit: I've got a suite there."

"That's great, Crowley and what exactly are we doing there while you apparently get your nails done?" Dean grumbled, hearing Rowena's quiet snigger in the background.

"If you could engage that hunk of grey matter you call a brain, that would help this situation a lot more. Funnily enough, Lucifer happens to be staying at the MGM, hence _why_ I have a suite!" Crowley's exasperation was evident in his impatient tone. Dean looked to Sam, who was now awake and listening, giving him a knowing eyeroll at Crowley's remark. A smile ghosted lightly on Sam's lips but it didn't stay.

"Alright, fine. What's the play? Who're we lookin' at?" Dean asked, pushing the car to sail past a Mustang that was barely touching the speed limit.

"We can talk finer details when you get here."

"Crowley," Sam growled before Dean could.

"Moose! So nice to hear from you. Last I'd heard you were a gibbering wreck. Doesn't sound like it now."

"Not so much of a wreck that I can't kick your ass," Sam snapped and pride swelled within Dean, hot and strong. Sammy always found a way to surprise him. "Stop dodging. Who. Is. He?"

"Fine, but you won't like it," Crowley grumbled. "He's taken over King."

Sam and Dean looked at each other over the phone, recognition lighting in Sam's eyes first.

"Wait, King as in _Stephen King_? The author?!"

"The one and the same."

"I guess Lucifer always did like a bit of irony," Dean shrugged, a disgusted smile twisting his mouth.

"Be that as it may, he's clearly enjoying the whole fandom thing – he's at a horror convention as we speak, but he's scheduled to leave at seven tonight so get a move on," Crowley snapped, the call going dead. Cas lowered the phone and gave Sam a long look from the backseat. The younger Winchester had been stunned, his eyes wide when Crowley had confirmed the name. He'd blinked, the look disappearing, replaced with a flicker of panic that he was desperately trying to control again.

"Sam, are you alright?" the angel asked softly, Dean's head snapping round to look at his brother, concern alight in his eyes. Sam squeezed his eyes shut, but held his hand up, knowing that Dean was about to pull over.

"I'm okay, it's okay," he replied through gritted teeth. He forced his eyes open and looked to Dean, trying to claw back from the pit his fear was trying to suck him into. "It just…it makes it more real, y'know?" He huffed a mirthless laugh. "I guess that's kind of a good thing, right?"

"Sammy…" Dean started, but Sam shook his head.

"No, Dean. I do. I have to go through this. Let's get it done so we can go home," he stated, turning his gaze straight ahead. Dean mirrored him.

"That's somethin' I can get onboard with," he said gruffly, pressing his right foot down harder. The Impala soared.

It was time to end it all.

oOo

 **Detroit, Michigan**

"Jeez. And there I was thinkin' three-star was fancy," Dean muttered under his breath as they walked into the lobby of the MGM Grand through the two sets of glass doors. He fiddled with the edge of his suit, glad that they'd made a pitstop to change before they'd arrived; somehow he didn't think they'd even get a look in if they'd come in wearing their usual plaid. He grasped Ketch's briefcase in his right hand. The high ceilings were dotted with huge canopied lights, everything from the floor to the ceiling tiles shining with glossed marble. They walked across the lobby, Dean taking the lead, as they headed towards the reception. A huge black desk, polished to a reflective sheen, stood in front of a swirling burnt orange painting that dominated the whole wall behind it.

"Good evening, gentlemen and welcome to the MGM Grand Hotel. How may I help you?" a bright-eyed brunette asked, her hair pulled back into a stylishly twisted ponytail. Her suit was crisp and formal, her smile genuine rather than the usual forced grimaces they were welcomed with at motels.

"We're hear to see Cro- Mr Crowley," Dean replied, hurriedly correcting himself.

"Oh yes, Mr Crowley did say he was expecting you," she nodded, her nails clicking against the keys of a computer concealed below the desk. She pulled a blank key-card from beneath the desk, sliding it across the counter towards Dean. She held out a hand, pointing to their right. "If you'd like to follow the black line on the floor around to the left, you'll find the elevator. Mr Crowley's suit is on the 18th floor, room 333; it's in the corner. Do enjoy your visit."

"Thanks," Dean nodded, taking the key-card and leading the way towards the elevator. They made their way silently through the hotel, up the lift, to the 18th floor. They didn't meet another person through the whole trek, but, at 4pm, that was hardly surprising. Somehow, it still unnerved Sam more and he found himself darting quick looks at his brother's back more and more often. Dean stood unfazed by it all and Sam tried to take comfort from that. It was either a fantastic ploy created in Sam's mind or it was genuine. He hoped to God that it was the latter.

Their footsteps were muffled in the plush carpet of the corridor, not a sound coming from any of the rooms they passed. It was yet another difference compared to their usual motel choices. Dean shrugged off his musings, raising his hand to insert the key-card into the lock. The door opened before he had the chance to unlock it, Crowley's grim smile greeting them.

"Hello, boys."

"Crowley." Cas responded as Dean brushed past the demon, leading Sam into the suite, leaving the angel and the demon by the door. Rowena sat on an overstuffed mahogany sofa, a cup and saucer balanced in her delicate fingers, a self-satisfied smile gracing her lips.

"Hello, Dean, Samuel," she greeted, putting her cup down. She stood up, making her way around the low glass coffee table and stood in front of Sam.

"Rowena," Dean replied, his voice half-acknowledgement, half-warning. Looking up, she ignored Dean and matched Sam eye to eye, taking one of his huge hands in her small ones. Her fingers traced down the lines in his palm and she tutted sympathetically.

"Oh, Samuel, you've not had it easy, have you?" she said sadly, her tone melancholic but her eyes were sharp.

"Like you care," Dean growled. She looked over at him, still holding onto Sam.

"You make me sound so heartless, Dean. I could've helped clear this all up for you earlier, you know."

"Yeah, for a price that we wouldn't be willin' to pay. At least this way, we know you actually want in as much as we do," Dean retorted, sitting down on the other end of the sofa to where the witch had been. He placed the briefcase down on the table.

"True," Rowena shrugged, dropping Sam's hand and moving back to her seat. "Although it never hurts to have a Winchester owe me a favour."

"To business then," Crowley interrupted before Dean could answer, entering the room as Sam walked over to the window, his nerves jangling. Dean watched him, knowing that he was hurting, but unable to do anything about it. Crowley sat beside him in a matching armchair, leaning on the armrests. Dean looked past him.

"Where's Cas?"

"Running a quick errand for me," Crowley explained, waving a hand dismissively. "We don't have long to get this plan together."

"Fine. Tell us what you know."

oOo

The elevator chimed softly as it arrived on the ground floor, the doors sliding smoothly open as Castiel exited. Walking back towards the front desk, his eyes moved across the lobby, looking for other occupants. Like before, it was empty – the only sound of people coming from the hotel's bar around the corner, out of sight of the desk. The same woman was there, alone, and, as he approached, she smiled warmly at him.

"How can I help, sir?"

Cas leaned in closer, a white key-card in his hand. The woman instinctively leaned a little closer as well, staring into the hypnotic blue of his eyes. His left hand shot out quickly, his fingers pressing to her temple as he maintained eye contact.

"My card isn't working. Please recode it for the penthouse," he instructed, sliding the plastic across to her and she took it automatically. With a few clicks below the desk, it was done and she handed it back to him, his fingers still pressed to her temple. "This conversation never happened; I was not here."

Cas released her and walked away, leaving the woman dazed. She blinked, confused, before returning her attention to her computer.

oOo

"Lucifer has been hopping from vessel to vessel – all of them progressively 'bigger' than the last. What he had over King to get him to say yes, who knows, maybe the promise of one of his books making it big in the movies again," Crowley explained, his attention focused on Dean. "Even my team has had trouble keeping up with his whereabouts so, for once, I'm actually glad you knew something first." Dean rolled his eyes, his jaw clenching. "Anyway, Lucifer appears to be getting off on the limelight still but for minimal work on his part. Apparently being an author works for him – no one actually knows that he's not doing anything."

"Get to the point, Crowley," Dean huffed impatiently.

"You spoil all my fun, you know that?" Crowley grumbled, glaring at him. "He's booked to be here, in the MGM penthouse, for tonight only. Therefore, we need to do this tonight. King might be an ironic vessel, but he's not getting any younger and I doubt he'll be able to hold Lucifer for long."

"Fine, so how do we get into the penthouse?" Dean pushed as the door opened and Castiel reappeared.

"With this," the angel answered, holding up the key-card. Dean nodded approvingly.

"What's the play?"

"Mother has a spell that will ensure Lucifer makes his way back to the Cage after he's been extracted. I assume that contains your end of the plan?" Crowley pointed at the briefcase. Dean leaned forwards, flipping the clasps on the black case, opening it to reveal the golden egg within. He picked it out of its padded casing and handed it to the demon who rolled it between his hands, gazing at the engravings curiously.

"And you're sure this will pull him out?"

"The Men of Letters haven't been wrong about their equipment so far," Dean begrudgingly admitted as he looked over to Sam. The younger Winchester was looking out across the skyline, seemingly ignoring their whole conversation.

"So you'll set this thing off and –"

"No." They all looked up at Sam's soft interruption. He turned to face them. "Dean won't use it. I will."

Crowley's glare snapped over to Dean.

"Are you insane?! You want to leave the one chance we have to get the Devil back in the Cage up to your broken other half?! Hell, even I can see that he's lost it!" he roared, his glare incredulous. Dean snapped upright, standing over the demon, his fists clenched and his look venomous.

"Watch your mouth, Crowley," he snarled.

"This is not just about you two. Could you imagine what will happen to _all of us_ if this goes wrong?! Just when I think you can't get any more moronic, you prove me wrong!"

The elder Winchester opened his mouth, his teeth bared in a snarl.

"Dean, stop." His look fell away, his anger curbing instantly at Sam's soft plea. He met his little brother's eyes. "He's right."

"Thank you!" Crowley barked, his expression twisting into a satisfied sneer.

"That doesn't change anything. I'm still going to be the one to use it," Sam replied, crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes locked on Crowley. "Yeah, I get it – I'm broken, I'm not strong enough, fine. You can think that. But you won't stop me. I'm not gonna fail. Not this time."

Pride swelled hot and fierce in Dean, wiping away his anger. This was what he wanted: Sam to have fire. To believe in himself. Screw Crowley. Screw Rowena. No one else mattered: only the towering figure of his little brother who stood with his head held high, determination pooling in his eyes.

"Damned straight," Dean smirked, happy when Sam gave him a small smile.

"If you two are the death of me, I am going to personally see to it that you suffer for the rest of eternity," Crowley snarled, shoving the golden egg back in the briefcase.

"Well, now that we've got the threats out of the way, shall we continue?" Rowena interjected, her tone light and mocking as she sipped her tea. Dean's grin was grim.

"Let's get to work."

oOo

The penthouse suite of the MGM Grand was an exquisite show of decadence, designed purely for those who wanted to make a statement with their power. The polished marble floor glistened beneath the subtle spotlights, broken in the centre of the suite's living space by a huge round rug that was a soft chocolate brown interlaced with cream bands curving in a simple, yet elegant design. Two white sofas curved around the edge of the rug, dominating the space against a backdrop of plush emerald curtains that blocked the balcony and impressive skyline from view.

Through the living area, the mahogany door leading to the bedroom was left open, revealing the plush super-king bed that was overladen with pillows and curtains, a swirling gold glass mural behind it, reflecting the light from above.

Dean walked in, finding Sam stood at the foot of the bed, the briefcase open in front of him, Ketch's instructions unfolded in his hands.

"How you doin'?" he asked. Sam struggled, but Dean could see the tense set of his shoulders and the way he was grinding his teeth.

"Not great, but I can't expect much else given the circumstances," he admitted, folding the paper up and placing it back in the briefcase.

"What can I do?" Dean asked for what felt like the millionth time but knowing that Sam didn't mind.

"Can you…just…be there? When he comes? I don't want to do this alone," Sam whispered, looking at Dean, his expression raw and vulnerable.

"Of course, Sammy. I'm not goin' anywhere," Dean reassured him, grasping his shoulder, wanting to embrace his baby brother but knowing that he was high-strung enough. There were still doubts for Sam – they'd lessened a lot over the last two days but Dean knew they were still there. "You got this though. Whatever happens, we're in it together."

Sam gave him a thankful smile and clasped the hand that rested on his shoulder, holding on tight. He looked past Dean.

"I still need to draw the sigil on the door," he remarked as he let Dean's hand pull away.

"I'd do it for you but…"

"It only works if it's the blood of the person using it," Sam finished for him, pulling his knife from his pocket and flicking out the blade. He walked over to the door, preparing to slice open his left palm.

"Sammy, wait." He stopped, looking over at Dean as he stepped up beside him, his hand held out.

"Let me. You know how much of a bitch it is when you go for the hand," he stated softly, taking the knife when Sam passed it to him. Sam watched, feeling detached, as Dean pressed the knife horizontally over the top of his forearm. It was strange: a part of him was screaming inside, telling him not to give the knife over, but the hunter inside, the logical side, told him that the man before him wasn't going to do anything to him now. What would be the point? If it was all a lie, Lucifer was about to get him anyway. He winced as the blade dug in. "Sorry, Sammy," Dean murmured as he sliced a clean cut before putting the knife away.

"It's alright," Sam replied, watching as Dean waited for the blood to pool, dipping his fingers in it before starting to etch the circle onto the dark wood. "At least he won't be able to see it."

Dean chuckled. "Just make sure you don't miss when you hit it." He alternated between drawing and squeezing Sam's arm as gently as he could to draw enough blood for the sigil. After a few silent minutes, he was done; the dark outline of a circle with a cross and downward facing triangle at its centre glistening on the wood. Pulling a bandana from his pocket, Dean was about to wrap it around Sam's forearm when Cas came up.

"Here, let me," he offered, holding up his hand but Sam leaned back, shaking his head. Cas looked at him, confused.

"It's okay. It makes me feel…normal. Knowing that something hurts. But thanks, Cas," Sam explained as Dean frowned. That was going to be something they'd have to deal with later. For now, he wrapped the bandana around Sam's arm, tying it off.

"Rowena and Crowley are ready on the balcony. I'll be there with them until you signal – if I stay with you, the Generator may latch onto me instead of Lucifer," the angel replied, studying Sam carefully. "Are you sure you're okay with this, Sam?"

"As okay as I'll ever be facing him again," Sam answered, his expression one of forced calm. Castiel nodded and turned away, heading back out to the balcony. The boys caught sight of Rowena stood behind a table, a huge bowl in front of her, Crowley stood to one side, before Cas turned and shut the curtains, the click of the doors muffled by the heavy material.

"C'mon, Sammy," Dean beckoned, leading his brother back into the bedroom, closing the door softly behind him. Sam walked robotically over to the bed, picking the Hyperbolic Pulse Generator up, warming its cool surface with his hands. He held it out to Dean.

"When I hit the sigil, pass it to me. I'll do the rest," he instructed. Dean took it, nodding. Together, they moved to the door, Sam behind it, Dean to his left, out of sight.

It was time for the waiting game to begin.

oOo

Rain banged against the window panes, bringing the darkness in early even though the sun hadn't fully set yet. The Winchesters stood in the darkening room, beginning to lose each other in the gloom, despite the curtains being wide open. The lights had long since gone off and they couldn't turn them back on without risking detection.

Tension thrummed like static in the air.

The lights snapped on overhead. Sam looked at Dean, wide-eyed, his chest heaving. Dean nodded reassuring, giving him a small smile. Sam fed off the determination that was sparked in his emerald eyes, drawing his strength from them as he listened at the door. One set of footsteps resounded. Got closer.

 _You got this_ , Dean mouthed when Sam looked to him again. Closing his eyes, Sam heaved a breath, let his eyes snap open.

He grabbed the door handle and pushed.

And got the brief satisfaction of seeing surprise flicker across Lucifer's face at the intrusion before his heart stopped at the sickening smile that spread like a snake's across the Devil's face.

"Sam. Now this _is_ a surprise. I didn't think you'd have the balls to break into my hotel room," he grinned, his honeyed words smoothing out the rough edges of his vessel's accent. He stood by the bar, a decanter of whiskey by his hand.

"Why?" Sam choked out, unable to keep the trembling from his voice. He could feel Dean's eyes on him, invisible to Lucifer. The Devil's brow crinkled minutely, seemingly caught off guard again.

"Why what, Sam?"

"Why is me being here a surprise?" Sam clarified, his emotions roiling as he watched Lucifer smooth out his expression, having been caught out for a third time.

"To say that I was… _displeased_ with you the last time we met is a bit of an understatement, don't you think? Then, to top that off, my sources have been struggling to find you for months. Now you happen to show up off your own volition? Call me jaded, but that is just a tad…surprising," Lucifer hissed, despite the smile that was plastered to his face. Behind King's glasses, his eyes were livid, dangerous. Sam's throat was dry as he tried to process Lucifer's words.

"What happened the last time we met?" he asked, licking dry lips, fighting the urge to step back when Lucifer took a step towards him.

"If you came to try my patience, Sam, you are doing a bang-up job so far. Now you're here for one of two reasons: either you think you can somehow hurt me – which, let's face it, you can't – or you're going to be a good boy and say yes, finally.

"Now, considering how my informants have been telling me all about how that demented brother of yours has been chasing his tail looking for you for months too, I doubt you're going to attempt my first guess on your own."

 _Or you're going to be a good boy and say yes_.

"I didn't." The whisper was sucked away as the air left his chest and Sam almost fell. He gripped the doorframe, the colour draining from his face, his head bowing as he fought for breath. He felt Dean shift beside him, wanting to step in, knowing he couldn't.

"Sam, I'm warning you –"

"I didn't say yes," he found his voice, looking up through the bangs that fell over his forehead. "In the barn. I said no."

Lucifer stopped in his tracks, confusion flitting across his face, before realisation hit and a broad grin broke out, his laughter resonating around the room.

"Oh Sam, do _tell_ ," he insisted, his eyes bright with hunger. "Did you think you had? Have you spent _this whole time_ thinking I was in your head?" Sam said nothing, but stared at him with unbridled horror. "C'mon, entertain me! Tell me, what was it like? What did you think this was? Wait, no, don't tell me – let me see if I can guess it!"

Lucifer began pacing, taking long strides across the marble tiles, still keeping his distance from the Winchester. He tapped his lips with a finger thoughtfully. "Now, I'd agreed to give you your own reality, didn't I? But I wouldn't have made it perfect, no, that would've been too easy. What would've hurt? What would've driven you insane?" He stopped, looking over at Sam, his face alight. "You'd drunk a lot of demon blood so I would've made you go through the whole detox thing. That would've got you to start with. Yes! You did, I can see it! Tell me, was it painful? Did you hallucinate? I bet they were full of things to do with Dean…you would've thought he was trying to hurt you."

"Stop." Sam choked out, his jaw clenched.

"No, no, no, this is too much fun, Sam! What else…" Lucifer paced again, his movements quick, erratic, his hands moving as he got more excited. "I don't care about the finer details, but somewhere along the line you left Dean and didn't try to go back. Why wouldn't you? What could stop you –" He stopped moving again, his grin broadening. "You thought he was _corrupt!_ How close am I?" He pointed at Sam. "Close! I can see it written all over your face! What's worse than that though…? What could make you lose faith in your precious brotherly bond? How could I destroy that?"

Sam's blood roared in his ears, his heart thumping against his ribcage. He'd wanted truth, but not this. Bile was rising in his throat and yet he couldn't stop Lucifer. Not yet.

He deserved this.

Lucifer gasped, clasping his hands.

"If this was all imaginary, I would make you think that _I_ _was_ _Dean_! Of course, that's perfect! If you thought he was me, you'd run. You'd keep running. Never trusting anyone…never trusting anything. Oh Sam, I wish this _had_ been me! I can only imagine how deliciously torturous these last few months have been for you!"

"Enough!" Sam cried, his voice cracking as tears began to fall.

Dean's hands clenched into fists so hard that his blunt nails drew blood, the red dripping onto the floor, but he didn't notice. His tear-filled eyes were fixed on his frightened brother who wasn't stopping this, wasn't moving a muscle. He was letting the Devil do this to him. Dean wanted to make it stop, but he couldn't. Sam was the one in control; Dean couldn't mess up their play. All he could do was watch as Sam let Lucifer torture him with his own past.

"And now you're here, crawling to me for answers. Broken, fractured, utterly destroyed. Do you want me to end this all for you, Sam? I can: you know I can," Lucifer purred, his tone alluring. "One little word from you and I promise to end your suffering. No more pain. No more doubts. I promise this time. Just everlasting darkness where you won't feel a thing. Haven't you suffered enough, Sam? Let me save you."

Panic filled Dean, raw and uncontrollable as he watched Sam's trembling stop, his whole body going still. The air hung heavy as Lucifer's offer swirled around them. He wanted to speak, to tell Sam that he would make it better again, he would take away his suffering, but that was a lie; he'd never be able to fix all the hurt, not in the same way that oblivion could. Sam raised his left hand, wiping away the tears from his cheeks, holding his head high as he looked up. And slowly turned to face his brother, locking eyes with him.

Dean's heart stopped.

"NOW!" Sam screamed, slamming his open palm against the sigil on the door. Almost to shocked to remember what he was doing, Dean's instincts kicked in, forcing him to throw the golden egg.

Sam caught it easily, snapping his head back round, fixing Lucifer with a look of fierce determination.

"Sam!" Lucifer growled, stepping towards him, his eyes widening as Sam held the egg up in his left hand, his right staying on the sigil.

" _Vade retro princeps inferni_!" Sam roared, the engravings on the Hyperbolic Pulse Generator reacting instantly, glowing blue from the bottom up. Fear flickered across Lucifer's face as he moved forwards again.

The egg exploded with light.

The shockwave knocked the Devil back, almost making Sam lose his grip. He let go of the sigil, grabbing hold of the egg with both hands as wind whipped around him, pushing his hair back, the light glowing so bright that he was forced to squint. It pulsed erratically and, somewhere behind him, Sam heard his brother call his name as he sank to one knee. The force of power was too much; he was losing it.

Suddenly he felt two hands grab his own from behind, Dean's arms circling around him, helping him, stabilising him. Together, they kept the pulse focused on Lucifer who was glowing the same iridescent blue.

"ROWENA, NOW!" Dean roared as the lights overhead began to explode, raining shattered glass down on them.

The curtains to the balcony were flung back, Castiel and Crowley both holding the glass doors open wide, arms raised against the howling wind that was driving out of the room. Rowena stood behind the table, her arms raised high.

" _Mah tay ez loh say tah_!" she chanted as she threw a handful of powder into the fire below her. Lucifer roared, veins of light rippling beneath his skin as the glass of the TV shattered and sliced out in the wind. The egg glowed brighter still, heating in Sam's hands. Dean looked away, burying his face in his brother's shoulder as he held on. Sam's jaw clenched as he glared at Lucifer through the light.

"This isn't over, Sam!" The Devil shrieked, almost engulfed in light.

"Go to hell!" Sam snarled, his voice rising above the din. The vibration of Sam's voice resounded through Dean, filling him with pride.

" _Mah tay ez loh say tah_!" Rowena shouted again, spreading her arms wide, aiming them at Lucifer. He howled, his head snapping back, his mouth gaping open as the light within him swirled out, creating a vortex over him. It grew almost infinitely until suddenly it stopped and, in one quick motion, it snaked out of the open window and slid down over the edge of the balcony, disappearing from sight. The wind died instantly, the room plunged into a twilight darkness as both brothers collapsed, the body of King falling to the floor. The egg fell from Sam's limp grasp, rolling across the floor.

Cas stalked in, crouching beside the human, feeling for a pulse and meeting Sam and Dean's expectant looks.

"He's alive," he confirmed. He got up moving over to the Winchesters. "Are you alright?"

Dean still clung onto his brother protectively, his arm wrapped across his chest, his chin resting on the top of his head. He felt Sam begin to tremble beneath his touch. He gripped him tighter.

He wasn't letting go. Not this time. Dean smiled up at Cas.

"We will be."

oOo

 **It was hard to think of a vessel that Lucifer would want without going for the President which I didn't want to copy from the Show. Therefore, I quite liked the irony of him going into the world's biggest horror writer (Sorry, Mr King!). I quite liked having the showdown in Detroit too (season 5 was a favourite for me!)**

 **I think one more chapter should do it, don't you? Who's ready for some proper hurt/comfort Winchester recovery?**

 **Please review!**


	19. I Am The Fire

**Apologies for the wait: I really wanted to make sure I got this one right and I've had a lot going on personally.**

 **So this feels really strange, going into this chapter, knowing that it's going to be the last. What a journey this story has been! 17 months, 303,614 words, 182 favourites, 208 follows and 561 of your wonderful reviews later and we're finally here. I'm a little emotional right now! It seems fitting that my mum has the 12x23 finale on with Carry On playing as I upload this!**

 **For the final time: enjoy!**

oOo

 _"You never saw me coming_

 _I'm the reaper outside your door."_

 _\- The Reckoning, Halestorm_

oOo

 _"Sam? Buddy? C'mon, focus for me."_

 _Sam groaned when his chin was grabbed, forcing his head up. The world was dark and swirling, fog snaking around him, drowning him in a sea of doubt. It blocked his vision, blinding him to the silhouette that stood just beyond his reach._

 _A deep rumble of thunder, soft, familiar – so very familiar – echoed around him._

 _The fingers digging into his cheeks were ice cold, freezing to his skin. He tried to pull away but they gripped him tighter, holding him still. His heart fluttered. He didn't want to be there._

 _He needed to see the figure beyond the mist._

 _There was safety there…right?_

 _"Come a bit closer. I don't think he can see you." Lucifer's laugh shivered against his skin. He felt something tickle his eyelashes, his gaze widening when he saw a blade hovering millimetres away. He went perfectly still._

 _The thunder rumbled again, the silhouette drawing nearer. It ran slowly, fighting the fog that was like a wave, pushing it back, keeping it from him. The knife dangled closer, almost brushing against his eyeball._

 _He couldn't move. Couldn't blink._

 _Broad shoulders glowed, haloed in the darkness, piercing through. Short hair – what colour was it? – was stood up in tufts as though the man hadn't slept in days. His legs were bowed, his run slow and easy despite his urgency. Sam's heart began to pound. He tried to remember the name but it flitted away, mocking him, always out of reach._

 _The thunder became his name; a panicked, protective shout that called to him._

 _"That's close enough," Lucifer ordered, the man stopping a couple of metres away as the archangel tilted Sam's head up a bit further, the knife falling away. Sam blinked furiously, frustrated by the fog blocking his vision._

 _Finally, it lifted, and with it came recognition. Dean's horrified face filling Sam's eyes._

 _Laughter rumbled around him, dark and menacing as the world turned, spinning, morphing, throwing Sam out of the chair, the frozen fingers falling from his face. It spun faster, whirling too quickly for him to lock onto anything before he was dumped onto the floor, light flooding around him, harsh and vivid._

 _Lucifer was back in his original vessel, his skin decaying, leaving open wounds oozing at his temples, his mouth curled into a vicious sneer. Beneath him, Dean knelt on the floor, his green eyes open wide, the same look of horror still there. Lucifer's hand was wrapped around his throat._

 _"No one is going to save you, Sam," Lucifer crooned, twirling a knife in in his free hand, rotating it with easy precision, his eyes alight, hungry. Sam couldn't move; he was frozen. Stuck._

 _Helpless._

 _The knife moved closer to Dean's chest, Lucifer's laugh filling his ears._

 _"You lose, Sam," he jeered, plunging the blade in._

 _"NO!"_

oOo

 **Lebanon, Kansas**

Sam's own shout woke him up, bolting him upright, his limbs tangled in his sheets, the pillow falling onto the floor. It was quieter than it had been in his head – quieter than it had been in the past. He was so afraid of Dean hearing him; he hated his brother having to race down the corridor every time he screamed in his sleep. It was too regular an occurrence.

This time, the bunker remained silent.

His hand shot out, fumbling for the light, pooling the room with its soft amber glow as his heart raced. The Winchester hauled himself upright, leaning back against the wall, his fingers laced through his hair. He ran them through a couple of times, pushing it back from his face, grounding himself with the physical senses around him until he just held his hands there, resting against his head. His hair was shorter now; they'd cut it a few days after they'd got back from Detroit. It no longer flopped into his eyes, irritated his neck. His cheeks were stubbled but no longer soft with downy hair.

Outwardly, he'd changed: he'd found some sense of normality.

Inwardly, Sam was barely holding it together. It had been over a month and still he was plagued by nightmares whenever he closed his eyes. He'd tried to avoid sleeping as much as he could to begin with, but he couldn't sustain it; his body wouldn't let him.

And Dean had worried.

Guilt had ridden Sam constantly, never loosing its grip on him, not even for a moment. He could barely look at his brother on some days: the shame was just too much to take. Everything he'd put Dean through…

He'd thought his torture was over. This was worse.

Dean never once blamed him, never said anything other than reassurances that Sam didn't deserve. They both desperately wanted to make things right, but neither knew how.

But now the nightmare lingered, overrode the guilt, leaving the shadows in his room stretching in towards him. Every breath came in a short sharp heave that he fought to control. He couldn't stay. Sliding off the bed, Sam padded out of his room, walking silently down the dim corridor, almost hugging the wall. The smooth stone was cool beneath his fingertips as he trailed them along it, using the sensations to anchor himself. Everything in his life was about grounding himself in reality, holding onto the truth that tormented him.

Reaching the door a few down from his own, Sam paused and leaned in close, listening. Nothing stirred.

 _No one is going to save you, Sam._

He grasped his head with one hand, squeezing his eyes shut and forced the malicious laughter down with everything he had until it was a faint whisper. Opening his eyes, the younger Winchester schooled his breathing before grasping the door handle and slipping into the darkness beyond like a whisper.

oOo

Consciousness came slowly, then, like an avalanche, it fell into place all at once, leaving Dean alert and rested. Groaning, he pulled his arm out from under his pillow and pressed the heel of his hand into his eye, rubbing the sleep from it. Blearily, he lifted his head and looked over at the clock beside his bed: 6.15am. Not bad: it was the first five hours he'd slept straight through in…he couldn't remember how long. Twisting himself round, the hunter turned the light on.

"Jeez!" he exclaimed, jumping when the light illuminated the figure sitting in his desk chair. Sam jumped at his surprise, the terror dissipating in an instant, dissolving into a look of sheepish guilt.

"Sorry, I didn't mean…" Sam mumbled, looking away. Dean held up a hand, placating his little brother.

"It's okay, you just caught me out. Guess I had to be out like a light for that to happen," Dean joked, but regretted as soon as he saw the guilt flare higher in Sam's averted eyes. He cleared his throat, sitting up properly. "What happened?"

"I don't…" Sam shrugged, still not looking at his brother.

"Sammy, c'mon, talk to me."

"It's stupid." Sam's reply curved a sad, nostalgic smile on Dean's lips. He sounded thirteen all over again.

"No, it's not. Nothing you do is stupid. Talk to me, man," Dean cajoled. He knew the answer already, but it wasn't about that. It wasn't about what he knew. When Sam was silent, Dean scooted over in his bed, waving a hand. "C'mere. Dude, c'mon." Slowly, Sam got up and shuffled over, sliding onto the bed beside his brother. The bed wasn't huge, but they could sit comfortably side by side, leaning back against the wall, just like they used to do when they were kids in one of the numerous motel rooms.

It was the first time that Sam had come to Dean in the month since they'd shoved Lucifer back in the Cage. In that time, Dean had nursed Sam through physical illness, night terrors, angry outbursts and almost catatonic moments that had lasted for days. The latter had scared the elder brother more than anything: seeing Sam just retreat into himself, becoming totally numb when there was nothing he could do to make it right was unbearable. He'd spent hours, days, researching trauma recovery and how to help his brother. It was never something Dean had bothered with before, but, this time, alcohol and ignoring the problem wasn't going to cut it. So he'd encouraged Sam to talk, pushed him to open up.

Now, the silence stretched warmly before, eventually, Sam broke it.

"When is this gonna end, Dean? When am I gonna stop feeling like this?"

"Like what?"

Sam fluttered his hand in a downward gesture at himself. "This. The fear, anger…guilt."

"I told you, you don't –"

"I know. I 'don't need to feel guilty', but that doesn't change the fact that I do. If I could take it all back…"

"I know you would; there's no doubt of that in my mind, Sammy. None at all. And I wish you didn't feel that way," Dean murmured, sneaking a sideways look at his brother. Sam's eyes were downcast, his hair falling over his face. "What did you dream about?"

"The barn. The hotel, the farm," Sam shrugged. "It all merges into one. Sometimes it's a memory, most of the time my mind warps it…changes it into something worse."

Considering how bad the original occurrences had been, dread filled Dean over how much worse Sam's nightmares could be. It worried him that Sam was beginning to be able to hide it from him in the night. He thought he'd been there every time Sam had had a nightmare. He'd raced down the corridor countless times – multiple times a night – to be there, to help bring Sam back from the terrors that gripped him. They'd seemed less frequent in the past week. Maybe it wasn't that at all; Sam just didn't want him to hear.

"Knowing that you were there the last time and I just left you…it kills me, Dean."

"Sammy, _you didn't know_. How could you have? They did everything they could to make sure you didn't. I don't blame you for that," Dean insisted, gritting his teeth. He hadn't wanted to tell Sam about his involvement, his failure to protect him, but they'd insisted on truth and clarity on everything that had happened. It had become a part of their recovery process. With all the details on the table, every single painful one, they'd hoped it would help. There were some days when Dean didn't think it did, but maybe today was different. Sam said nothing and Dean watched as he fell into his thoughts. "What's gonna help? What do you wanna try? 'Cause staying here ain't workin'."

A single image flashed up in Sam's mind. It made his mouth dry and his heart pound.

"I need…" he swallowed, cleared his throat. Looked up to Dean. "I need to go back. To the farm. Maybe if I go, I'll find…I dunno, closure?"

Dean gave a hard nod, suppressing what would've been a grim smile. That Sam wanted to go out was a positive step and not one that Dean would question.

"…But, I can't do it on my own. I just…can't," Sam admitted, his voice small.

"I'll be there every step of the way," Dean assured him, reaching up to pat Sam's shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "Let me make a few calls and we'll get the ball rollin'."

oOo

 **Grantsburg, Wisconsin**

The dining room was warm and homely, empty of the family for the moment; lunch had passed and they had all continued on with their separate errands for the afternoon. Garth sat alone at the table, a line of phones sitting to the right of his computer which he was staring at intently. It had been a fairly quiet morning for the werewolf regarding job calls from various hunters across the country. The community still had no idea about his recent assimilation into the werewolf family but, as their research guru, it wasn't often that many ever wanted to visit. Those that did only ever saw what Garth's family wanted every human to see: a close-knit family who lived a quiet life.

Garth's personal phone rang and he smiled as he picked up.

"Yo, Dean. What's up?" he greeted, opening up a new tab on his computer, already knowing where the conversation was going to go.

"You still got that info I asked you to get?"

"Sure do. What d'you want me to do with it?"

"Set up a meet. Emporia, Kansas," Dean's voice was hard, almost a snarl. Garth could relate. He'd offered more than just his tracking services, but Dean had refused. It was personal; Garth got that. So he did what he was good at.

"When for, bro?"

"Can you get tomorrow morning to work?"

Garth tapped on his laptop keys, bringing up a map and watching a small blue blob pulse on it. A few more taps and he quirked a smile.

"Sure thing."

"Pick a place – I don't care where. It won't matter."

"Will do. I'll text you with the tracker's whereabouts later," Garth confirmed, keeping the window open on his laptop as he picked up one of his burner phones.

"Thanks, Garth. It means a lot," Dean said his tone gruff with emotion.

"Anythin' for you and Sam, you know that. How is he?"

"He's gettin' better. Small steps."

"What about you?"

"Better after tonight," Garth heard the curve of Dean's smile. "Text me the details later."

The hunter hung up and Garth put the phone down, picking up the burner. After three weeks of hard work, it was time to get Dean's plan on the move.

oOo

 **Candlewood Suites, Emporia, Kansas**

Night had fallen, cloaking the town in darkness. It was quiet; the residents long since having retired for the night. He'd rolled into town, glad to finally stop. His meeting was at 6am sharp and it had been a long ten hours from Cincinnati. When his contact had called, he almost cancelled – it was a long way and he wasn't meant to be taking jobs again yet – but this had sounded too promising.

And he'd been out of the game for too long. He wanted back in.

Needed it.

In his line of work, the longer he was out, the worse it got. He had a reputation to maintain.

Slamming the door shut of his Dodge Durango, he hefted his duffel bag over one shoulder and carried a bag containing the takeout he'd grabbed on the way. Striding across the empty parking lot, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Stopping, he turned, his eyes narrowing, scanning the whole area. A chilled breeze picked up, ruffling his jacket. Shaking his head, he saw nothing.

In the darkness across the street, a figure watched, his eyes trained on the man as he entered his room and shut the door, the light streaming through the window. The takeout bag was dumped on the table, the duffel bag on the bed. He checked his watch. He had time.

He held his position, waiting.

Inside the room, the man threw the keys down on the table, checking through the window once more before drawing the curtains and turning away. Untucking his shirt, he unbuttoned it, pulling it off to reveal a toned physique peppered with white scars that broke up the smooth, golden skin. Bundling the shirt up into a ball, he threw it on the bed, making his way to the bathroom. Shower, dinner, research. It felt good to be productive again.

oOo

Checking no one saw, the figure ran silently across the parking lot, coming up to the room. Through a sliver of a gap in the curtains, he saw the room was empty, the bathroom door closed. Pulling his lockpicks from his pocket, he made quick work of the door, easing it open with a light click. He waited, listening and was rewarded with the sound of a shower running. Without waiting, he slipped inside.

oOo

The harsh bathroom light glared down from high above him, exposing the grime beginning to fester in the corners of the bath, staining the white a putrid black. He closed his eyes, blocking it. Ignoring it: he'd be back in better accommodation soon. Instead, he revelled in the hot jets that poured over his head and down his neck. The steam released the tension from his muscles, loosening the knots driving had created. He enjoyed it, braced his hands against the cold tiles. The scent of cheap soap covered the stench of mildew that was ever-present in rooms like that.

Eventually his stomach grumbled, breaking the relaxation of the shower, forcing his hand. Turning the water off, he grabbed the thin scratchy towel that had seen one-too-many washes and quickly dried himself before wrapping it around his waist. His bare feet slapped against the tiled floor. Grasping the handle, he pulled the door open and stepped out into the empty room.

He made for the bed.

And gave a gruff yelp of surprise when someone barrelled into him, knocking him to the floor, landing on him, a knee shoved in his back, the cold muzzle of a gun pressed roughly into the back of his neck, his cheek pressed into the threadbare carpet. He went still, his eyes widening when a familiar face towered over him.

"My brother told you I'd come for you. Enjoy your hell tour," Dean snarled, cocking his gun. The mercenary opened his mouth and Dean felt him tense underneath him.

He pulled the trigger.

Griff Andrews slumped against the floor, his eyes wide and unseeing, blood pooling at the base of his skull. Dean climbed off him, grim satisfaction filling him.

No one hurt his little brother and got away with it.

One down. One to go.

Dean could wait.

oOo

 **Budget Host Inn, Emporia, Kansas**

Sam looked up when the door opened and Dean appeared, a bag in one hand and a six pack in the other. It had felt like forever since he'd gone out and it had frayed Sam's nerves to be alone even though he knew, feasibly, that he wasn't in danger; the danger had gone. But trying to convince his mind of that was exhausting. He'd wanted Dean to go though; he had to start doing normal things. Things like staying in a motel room on his own without anything happening. It was the only way he was going to get past the thought that someone would come and take him.

"How was it? You okay?" Dean asked, putting the bag and the beer down on the table, his green eyes full of concern as he did a visual check of his brother. Sam was sat on the bed furthest from the door, his long legs stretched out, his gun on top of the covers within reach. His laptop was balanced on his lap. He looked almost…normal again. Until Dean saw the exhaustion living permanently inside his eyes.

"It was…okay. Not great, but, y'know," Sam shrugged.

"Small steps. What you doin'?" Dean nodded to the laptop. Sam gave a small smile, turning the screen. Dean looked at the news pages, his eyebrows lifting. "You're lookin' for cases?"

"I thought I'd see what we've been missing."

"Sammy…I don't think we're at that stage yet," Dean frowned softly, unease creeping in. Sam turned the laptop back round, closing the lid and putting it on the bed as he swung his legs off. He leaned forwards, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped.

"I know. I wasn't looking for something we could go after, but I just…I need to start going through the motions. Think about something else besides how crap I feel."

"Did it help?"

"Not really," Sam frowned, getting up and moving over to the small dining table as Dean opened the six pack, passing him one. "It just reminded me that while I'm sitting around moping, people need us. They've needed us for over a year."

"That's not on you, Sam. It's not on me, either. Look, we _will_ get back in the game, we will, but not until we're ready. Sometimes we gotta come first. I know you don't like hearin' that but, let's face it, we're no good to anyone at the moment. There's always gonna be monsters to gank. The other hunters will have been on it. Jody's even picked up a few, so has Donna from what I've heard. The world will be fine without us for a little longer," Dean insisted, his words full of force, even though his tone was gentle, patient.

"Yeah, I guess," Sam conceded as he watched Dean pull dinner out of the bag. The younger Winchester watched his brother, his eyes narrowing curiously. Dean looked up at him as he passed a boxed salad his way.

"What?"

"You look…different," Sam answered, still scrutinising his brother without judgement as he opened a box containing his burger. "Dean, you didn't just get food, did you?"

Dean opened his mouth, a lie on the tip of his tongue, but it jammed in his throat when he locked eyes with Sam again. He sighed, putting his burger down.

"I ran an errand, one that Garth was helpin' with. There's one less scumbag in the world, let's leave it at that."

Understanding dawned on Sam as Dean took a long mouthful of his beer. Dean had been hurting as much as he had and he'd needed to get back control, just as much as Sam did.

"Thank you," he murmured, softly, sincerely. Dean nodded, looking away, his throat working. Sam didn't know how he'd found the mercenary, but that wasn't important. He'd protected his brother and that was what mattered.

"C'mon, your salad's gettin' cold," Dean grinned through a mouthful of burger. Sam rolled his eyes, a smile tugging on his lips, chasing away the fear of tomorrow just for a little while.

oOo

 **Outskirts of Geneva, Kansas**

The farmhouse stood isolated in a sea of green, towering over the grounds. Its walls were flaking dismal scabs of curled grey, ripped by the elements for too long. A single beige dirt track leading up the side of the property. Grass grew down its centre, the rest worn down after years of abuse from heavy machinery rolling over it. The makeshift fence made from bent tree boughs, broken in two places, the beams lying on the ground, snared its way around the property and what had been a small trimmed garden area was now overgrown with weeds and long grass.

The snarling rumble of the Impala broke the isolated silence, the sleek black car bumping and jostling its way slowly up the dirt track, the tyres crunching across the dry earth.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut.

 _We're nearly home._ Thomas' voice rang in his mind, accompanying the sound of the gravel, sparked by it. He remembered the panic that had welled up as he'd been transported to the farmhouse, the sheer helplessness he'd felt.

 _You're not helpless this time. Open your eyes._

The hunter's voice was strong and commanding, and Sam did as it said, glancing quickly over to Dean, needing the confirmation that his brother was there with him. Dean looked straight ahead, a muscle ticking in his jaw as he clenched his teeth behind pursed lips. He exuded strength and Sam drew on it. Sucking in a shaky breath, Sam looked through the windshield, looking up at the house, taking a proper look at it for the first time in the light. Every other time he'd been moved, he'd been blindfolded. He'd run from it in the dark – the one night he'd thought he'd nearly succeeded in escaping – and he hadn't looked back. It looked so…normal. Like any other farm. To a civilian, that's all it was; they would've passed by without a single thought while it hid the true horror of what Sam had faced. What he was going to face again.

The Impala slowed, rumbling to a stop in the shadow of the main house. Dean cut the engine and they sat there, not moving. Sam's hands clenched into fists on his knees, his shoulders tensed, lips pursed.

"We can still leave, Sammy. You don't need to do this," Dean murmured softly, his tone free of judgement. Everything was in Sam's control as far as Dean was concerned, but, for Sam, there was no choice – not if he ever wanted to move forward.

"I'm okay. We just…I want to get it done," he choked out, his hand snapping out to grab his door handle. Sam paused for a moment, centring his breathing. The door squealed as he jerked it open, pulling his tall frame out of the car, Dean mirroring his movements. The doors slammed shut in unison. Dean waited, looking at him over the roof of the car. Sam was the lead. He didn't want to be – hell, everything in him was screaming at him to jump back in the car and run – but he needed this.

Kill or cure.

"Let's go," he instructed, his voice rough as his throat closed. Moving around the Impala, he walked forwards, his brother falling into beside him, keeping close. Together, they walked down beside the house, following it around to the front lawn. A chilled breeze snapped across them as they rounded the corner. It ruffled Sam's jacket, brushed through his hair. They got to the steps leading up to the porch before he stopped, gazing up at the ageing farmhouse. Dean stayed still, his concern growing as Sam just stood there, not moving.

"Sam?"

Sam turned his gaze away, staring out over the land in front of the house.

"It was dark when I ran," he murmured, his voice soft as he started to walk, almost in a trance. "Thomas had let me in the house – it was the only time he did. I got out, ran down and went this way." His feet disappeared in the sea of long grass, Dean following in his wake as he talked. "I left the car – I didn't have the keys and it was dark – so I ran. I saw those trees." He pointed to the small copse in the distance. "I thought if I could get there, I could lose him." He reached the makeshift fence, stopping at its boundary. The wind brushed his hair from his face as he looked out over the land. "I hid in one of the trees. I think I knew, deep down, that he would find me. It was a game."

"It wasn't. Not for you," Dean whispered, seeing a vision of his brother running, terrified, across the open landscape. He blinked, banishing the image.

"No, but I don't know why I thought I could get away." He gripped the fence, his knuckles white.

"You're a fighter, Sam. You always have been. You had to try: it's who you are. Who _we_ are."

"Until I gave up. I'm so sorry, Dean. I know I keep saying it, I know it doesn't make it better. If I'd kept fighting, we wouldn't be in this mess." Sam kept his eyes forward, fighting the tears that threatened to well. He couldn't give in – not yet. He'd only walked across the damned lawn.

"That's not true. Sam, you did the best you could. You lasted longer than anyone else could've. Me included. You gotta stop beatin' yourself up for the things that happened. You had _no_ _choice_ ," Dean admonished gently, watching the internal struggle rising to the surface of his brother's expression. "Now you do. And you're makin' a difference. You're makin' it right – not for me but for _you_."

Sam nodded silently, shoving away from the fence, sticking his hands in his jacket pockets. Turning, he held his breath, his head turning towards the small raised mound hunched in the corner of the lawn. He began walking, mechanically, putting one foot in front of the other. The angled entrance loomed up: the steel door was caked in dirt, its surface dulled in the sunlight. It was shut, the bolt shot home, sealing the cellar.

Blood roared in Sam's ears.

He stopped. Stared. Forgot to breathe.

"Easy, Sammy," Dean's hand clasped his shoulder gently, making him jump but Dean didn't let go. "I'm right here."

"I don't even know how long I spent down there," Sam whispered, his eyes wide, his breathing shallow.

"You got out. That's what's important. No one is gonna keep you down there again," Dean reassured him, keeping his gaze locked on his little brother. He hated this: he didn't want Sam to put himself through this. Dean would give anything to not have him go through it. But Sam needed it, so Dean did the only thing he could: be the strong one.

"Fuck," Sam cursed, running his hand back through his hair, his hands trembling. He didn't want to do this. He wanted to run.

 _No more running._

"Open it," he ordered and Dean's hand dropped away as he leaned forwards, unbolting the door. The elder brother looked over his shoulder.

"You sure?"

"No…yes. Shit. Just…yeah. Do it before I lose it," Sam swallowed, his nerves jangling almost agonisingly. Dean nodded, taking a deep breath before yanking the door up and open, revealing the darkness below.

The stale stench of the unused space exhaled out, hitting the boys full blast. Sam reeled back, a surge of memories smacking him in the gut.

 _You know the drill; the more cooperative you are, the easier it will be._

 _Of course, you can avoid making me do any of this if you choose to do as your told and eat what I give you. Which would you like?_

 _I used to be a dog breeder and trainer, long before I was Lady Bevell's head of house. Do you know how we used to deal with uncooperative dogs? We'd muzzle them until they learn._

 _Dean is dead, Samuel. The real Dean, not the imposter you've been clinging onto here._

Sam staggered away, falling to his knees and retching violently, bringing what little he'd eaten up on the lawn. Dean was at his side in an instant, kneeling beside him, his hand rubbing circles on his back.

"Easy, Sam. It's okay," he soothed as Sam vomited again, his breathing ragged. They stayed like that until Sam had nothing left to bring up.

"This is so stupid," Sam mumbled miserably, flopping back so that he was sat with his knees drawn up, his elbows on them and his hands in his hair.

"No, it's not. This was never gonna be easy. If you wanna go, we can," Dean replied, watching as Sam shook his head without looking up.

"I gotta do this, Dean."

"Alright, just wait here a sec, okay?" Dean instructed, jogging off across the lawn. Sam watched him go, his heart thrumming as he left. He reached the Impala, opened the trunk and pulled something out before jogging back, never once leaving Sam's line of sight. "Here," he offered a bottle of water, staying stood up but close as Sam rinsed out his mouth, spitting the water on the ground. Drinking a few mouthfuls, Sam finished the bottle, screwing the cap back on.

"Thanks," he murmured, accepting Dean's hand when he offered it, pulling himself up again. Taking a shaky breath, he stepped towards the cellar, stopping at the top. Looking down, he peered into the darkness, squashing the whispering memories that tried to rise again.

"You want me to go first?" Dean asked.

Sam shook his head. "No. Just…don't go."

"Never," Dean affirmed, giving Sam a reassuring smile when he looked over his shoulder. "You got this, Sammy."

Sam ran a hair back through his hair with one last nervous gesture, before he took the first step down. It was the first time he'd descended voluntarily; the first time Thomas had carried him, the second he'd been unconscious.

Their footfalls echoed as they stepped down and in, brushing alongside the memory of the soft, clipped footsteps of Thomas. Reality overwhelmed his imagination, their footsteps louder and heavier, drowning it out. It felt like they were going down forever.

Sam sucked in a breath as they reached the bottom. Dean fumbled for the light switch.

Claustrophobia hit as the pale yellowed light illuminated the dull interior. Sam backed up a step, bumping into the warm solidity of his brother who was stood on the step above him.

"It's okay, you're okay. I'm here," Dean soothed, reaching down and put his hands on his little brother's shoulders, feeling the trembles vibrate through him, his fear humming throughout his whole being. Dean rubbed his thumbs in soothing circles, helping Sam ground himself.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, clenching his jaw until his teeth ached, focusing on the warmth spreading from his brother's hands, using it to stay in the present when his mind wanted to send him back. Slowly, he breathed out, opened his eyes and looked.

Nothing had changed.

The walls were still the unpainted, dull grey that felt like they were closing in on him. It was still bare: the wooden shelf hung on one side, still laden with what was left of Thomas' equipment. The table and two wooden chairs were still there. Sam's eyes swept to the right, falling on the single metal cot which sat against the wall. Lying across the bare mattress, a single chain was coiled, one end snaking up to the loop on the wall it was attached to. The ghost of a sensation locked itself around Sam's ankle, tight, familiar.

He swallowed.

Almost in a trance, he stepped forwards, leaving Dean's reassuring touch behind. It only took a few strides to reach the edge of the bed. He looked down, the ghost of himself etching itself onto the small frame. Fragile. Bound. Helpless.

He looked away, clenching his jaw.

Sam's eyes roved around and he turned on the spot until he saw the camera up high in the corner. The light was off now, the lens dim and dusty.

 _"Get off on watching, do you?" Sam snarled, giving the camera a pointed look. Thomas studied him carefully._

 _"It serves the same purpose as the one in your accommodation in London; it's there to protect you."_

 _"Funny. You keep going on about all this 'protection' and yet somehow I don't exactly feel the benefit," Sam retorted sarcastically. He nodded down to the necklace. "That supposed to protect me too?"_

"He would tell me everything was to protect me, to keep Lucifer out," he murmured as Dean watched him curiously. The elder Winchester crossed his arms, moving into the room, closer to his brother, but still giving him his space. He said nothing. Sam moved to the shelf, running his hand hesitantly over the equipment Thomas had left, his fingers shaking until they touched cold metal. He frowned, grasping the metal rod and pulling it from the shelf. He stared at it curiously, touching the rounded end briefly with his fingertips, jerking them away as if it burned. "I couldn't understand how it happened. He told me my mind had subconsciously done it to protect me from Lucifer. I believed him…eventually. I shouldn't have. Deep down, I knew he'd done it. I remember feeling groggy, falling in and out of it. Then there was nothing but fire and pain."

He reached over his shoulder, his fingers ghosting over where the brand had been, closing his eyes as the memory surfaced.

oOo

 _Two weeks earlier_

 _"I found the symbol in the catalogues," Cas explained, holding one of the bunker's huge tomes in his hands. He turned it towards the brothers, pointing to the symbol that mirrored the scar on Sam's back. "It's exactly as we thought: it blocks all angels from being able to communicate with the wearer. Traditionally it's worn –"_

 _"As a necklace," Sam finished for him. Both Dean and Cas looked at him. "Before I was branded, I saw a necklace with the same design. Thomas knew I'd take it off the first chance I got so he made it permanent."_

 _"So why didn't it come off when you healed him?" Dean asked, taking the tome and studying it._

 _"It can't be removed like that: it needs a spell."_

 _"Of course it does," Dean grumbled._

 _"Luckily for us, the spell we need it right there," Cas pointed to the incantation opposite the symbol, "and I believe we have all the ingredients we need here too."_

 _"Awesome." Dean pushed up from his seat, taking the tome with him as he headed off towards the stores. Castiel took a seat beside Sam who was staring at the doorway where Dean had gone._

 _"Sam," he turned his head back towards the angel when he spoke. "Do you…do you want it removed?"_

 _Sam frowned; he hadn't expected anyone to ask. He looked at Cas quizzically._

 _"If you choose to keep it, you're safe from all angels if I put the warding back on your ribs too. Yes, it cloaks you from me too, but it will from all angels," Castiel explained, his voice low and grave. They'd admitted to removing Sam's warding when they'd got back to the bunker. Dean had expected backlash, but Sam hadn't found it in himself to argue; he could see why they'd done it. Sam mulled the idea over, feeling exhausted at having to make a decision. He felt exhausted most of the time these days._

 _"I want it off," he admitted, finally, looking at the angel. "If we'd been able to communicate, half of this wouldn't have happened. And I don't…I don't want a reminder of what happened stuck on me."_

 _"And your ribs?"_

 _"Put them back how they were," Sam instructed. They both looked up as Dean reappeared, the tome, a bowl and several jars balanced in his arms. He spread it out on the table, opening the book back on the relevant page. He looked up expectantly._

 _"What'd I miss?"_

 _"Nothing. I'm going to put the Enochian sigils back when we're through," Cas explained. Dean nodded, setting to work on the ingredients._

 _Sam watched him work, barely able to focus on him. It took everything he had to stay present and this was the longest he'd been awake in the two weeks they'd been back. Dean and Cas talked as he worked, but Sam wasn't listening; he found his eyes drifting around the library aimlessly._

 _"Sammy?" He blinked, snapping back to reality again, looking up at Dean's concerned eyes._

 _"Sorry," he apologised, knowing that his constant zoning out worried his brother._

 _"It's alright," Dean smiled reassuringly, holding the small bowl in his hands. "I need you to take your shirt off."_

 _Sam nodded, leaning forwards so that he could pull off the blue plaid shirt he was wearing, followed by the black t-shirt he had on underneath. The cold brushed against his skin and he shivered involuntarily._

 _"It won't take long," Dean promised. "I'm gonna put this on your shoulder, say the incantation and then it should work."_

 _Sam nodded, peering over his shoulder as Dean dabbed his fingers into the paste he'd made, smearing a thick coating of it over the puckered skin of Sam's right shoulder. It was cold and smelled faintly of cinnamon. The bowl clattered against the table as Dean set it down, wiping his hand on his outer shirt before picking up the book._

 _"You ready?" he asked. Sam nodded. "In noctibus levate signum."_

 _They all waited, watching Sam carefully. The younger Winchester frowned._

 _"Nothing's happening," he remarked, looking up at Dean._

 _"Maybe I said it wrong," he grumbled, looking at the page. Cas held out his hand for the book._

 _"It sounded right," Sam insisted, "maybe–" He stopped, gasping as his shoulder crackled beneath the paste, making his whole body convulse._

 _"Sam!" Dean exclaimed, dropping the book. Sam's eyes widened as his skin burned, ripping a pained howl from his throat. His hand automatically rose to claw at his shoulder, but Castiel grabbed his wrist, holding it. Dean copied his actions with Sam's other wrist, the pair holding the younger brother as he shrieked, fighting their hold, drowning out Dean's murmured comforts. Hiis shoulder was on fire, the paste eating into his skin like acid._

 _It felt like it lasted for hours, but was no more than a few minutes until, finally, the burn subsided, and he slumped forwards, exhausted. Dean wiped the paste off with care._

 _"What the hell, Cas?!" he exclaimed. "It's still there!"_

 _"Hang on, Dean," Cas instructed, looking down at Sam. "Are you ready? I'm going to put the sigils back first."_

 _Sam nodded. The angel spread his warm hand across Sam's bare chest and he gasped in pain as he felt his ribs heat. It died off quickly and the angel pressed two fingers to his forehead._

oOo

 _Now_

The skin was smooth once more under his shirt, the brand completely gone. It had been yet another piece of his life that Sam had gained back. He grasped the branding iron with both hands, holding it in front of him like a sword. He looked up at the shelf, lined with the implements that had been left. That had caused him so much pain and fear.

The metal smashed down on the wooden shelf, splintering it in an instant. Sam hit it again and again, giving it everything he had until the wood gave out and fell to the floor, the restraints, the vials, the boxes clattering across the floor. Sam wheeled around, banging the rod down on the metal cot, striking it over and over. The end snapped off pinging across the room, hitting the wall just to the right of Dean. The elder Winchester stepped forwards towards his brother, the younger man panting heavily, a sheen of sweat glistening on his brow.

"Let me," he murmured, holding out a hand and gently pulling the metal rod from Sam's hands. It clanked against the concrete floor and gently, he turned his brother towards him, wrapping his arms around his shaking form. Sam's arms lifted and clung on as he buried his face in the crook of his brother's neck. "It's alright, Sammy. You're okay," Dean whispered to him softly, holding him together.

Sam clung on, finding his grounding, using Dean's strength to keep himself from losing it.

 _Stone Number One._

He was starting from the foundations all over again, but that first stone was there. It was always there. Dean wasn't going to leave him. They would move forward together. Always together.

"I want to burn it down," he murmured into Dean's shoulder, his voice muffled. He felt Dean nod.

"I'll get the gas."

oOo

 **I-135N, Outskirts of Smokey Hill, Kansas**

The Impala breezed along the highway, its rumble loud and comforting as it ate away at the road before them. The world had turned to darkness, leaving the car alone on the road; the remaining cars few and far between as they roared through the silence. Metallica's Nothing Else Matters drifted through the speakers quietly, adding to the warm familiarity of the car. Dean drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting in his lap, his lips silently miming the words to the song. Sam sat with his head leaning against the cool window, his eyes trained on the road ahead when he wasn't taking in the small details of the car. Every now and then, he could hear the comforting little rattle of the Lego blocks in the air vents.

"You can sleep, y'know," Dean remarked, breaking the silence. Sam looked over at him, taking in the sight that he'd seen thousands of times before.

"I know. I was just…pretending everything's normal again," Sam admitted ruefully. "Like we're just coming back from another hunt."

Dean laughed, lifting his shirt to his nose, before dropping it.

"Well we definitely smell like we've burned a few bodies," he chuckled drily. Watching the farmhouse go up in flames had been cathartic for the both of them. With the pyre burning in the background, they'd left, another weight lifted.

"Is it weird that I'm kinda looking forward to that again?" Sam asked and Dean grinned.

"Not for us. That _is_ normal. We'll get there, one step at a time. Maybe we can start with somethin' small."

"No Jefferson Starships or Leviathans?"

Dean huffed a laugh. "Hell no. Maybe a vampire nest. If you're lucky."

Sam laughed and it felt like another piece of normality falling into place. He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed properly. He looked to his brother again, saw the laughter lines crinkled at the edges of his eyes. It had been too long for the both of them.

But this was the start.

Sam cleared his throat, sobering.

"Dean…I just…" Dean glanced over at him as he started. "Thank you. For everything. For not giving up on me. For putting up with all the crap I've put you through. I know it's not been easy."

"You know how it is, Sammy; we're in this together. Always. That's never changed. It won't ever," Dean replied, the humour gone from his tone, replaced with gruff emotion that brought Sam the comfort he needed. They lapsed into companionable silence once more and Sam yawned, his eyes heavy as he fought it. "Dude, go to sleep. I'll wake you when we get home."

Sam nodded, sliding down the seating, leaning against the window again, his body twisted towards his brother, knowing he was there, that he would keep him safe. Just like he always had.

"Night, jerk."

In the darkness, Dean grinned.

"Night, bitch."

oOo

 **So I just wanted to say a final, MASSIVE thank you to you all, the readers! Honestly, without your follows, reviews and messages, writing is a whole lot harder. An especially big thank you to the guests as well as named reviewers, in particular Kirsten and those of you who have followed this all the way through. Thank you for taking this journey with me. I hope you've loved it as much as I have.**

 **I'm gonna take a little break for a while (not a long one) and I may do a few one-shots now and then before I get stuck into a new project.**

 **If you've enjoyed this, please do leave one final review for me.**

 **See you all soon!**


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